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Day 00, The Gathering

Planning, lists, execution, thinking, remembering, more lists, crossing off items, phone calls, tools dropped, fingers smashed, lists upon lists. Late nights, research, phone calls, parts bought, parts returned, manuals lost… it goes on. Before any of us know it, the day arrives. The day where you cannot go back for the forgotten, where tomorrow is today, and you are in the time we have all been counting down to.

On May 11th, we all gathered—not around a fire, but around a dock. On boats large and small, slow and fast, power and sail. One at a time, we all putz into Friday Harbor to prepare for the kickoff that would mark the start of our great summer adventure.

Kyle and I arrived Sunday aboard M/Y Sentindo Bem, a 47’ Ocean Alexander, loaded with enough gear that I was almost not convinced her waterline had been raised two inches this past winter. To our delight, m/v Time After Time, a beautiful, soul-filled solo woman captain and her dog, Joey, were already there and waiting. Time After Time is a 34’ CHB—a true classic.

Monday the 11th arrived sooner than any of us expected. With the last of our shopping finished, fuel topped off, and water acquired, we were ready. At least as ready as we could be.

As we finished up lunch at the hidden gem called Golden Triangle, the first call came in. S/Y Marquess 2, a 40’ Catalina MK2, was inbound and requested hands on the dock. Truly, I think it was just to see us right away, but I’ll take their cover.

Like a natural domino effect, the rest of the group came floating in, as if they had split a time portal like late-night taxis. m/v Green Frog, a 34’ Lindell, was accompanied by M/Y Lucky Dawg, a 36’ American Tug. Before the hellos could even begin, the famous Stimpy and C-Otter from the first flotilla were ready with lines and a dockside approach strategy.

Finally, a moment for hugs, “how are yous,” and “great to see you again” could be shared. Before the high fives were even exchanged, she appeared out of nowhere at the marina entrance—25 feet of beam, Zephyr, a 45’ sailing catamaran. Just like that, seven out of the nine boats were in.

The dock was alive. With laughter, stories, dogs, snacks, hugs—and the question of the afternoon: “Where did you depart from?” The magical effect of group energy was officially underway, and it was mesmerizing. Naturally, no boat gathering happens without a couple of “need-to-dos” or “can you look at this?” topics. Boats were rinsed, plugged in, and tucked into slips. The electricity was high—and contagious.

Kiora, a 27’ Ranger Tug, meandered in just before dinner. This first night together, we exchange lists, talk about the items we forgot, and get a couple of “I’ve got an extra of that” responses. The dinner bell rings, and Paragon, a 40’ Tollycraft, slips into her berth as though she arrived right on cue.

The most important part of tonight: we eat together and share in Captain’s Hour. This is what locks in the magic. Here, we answer questions, talk about the day, and go over the daily brief for tomorrow. It’s during the daily brief that we cover the route, departure time, mileage, destination, and so much more. The big topic for discussion tonight? Customs.

Before we knew it, it was late. Yawns started slipping out, and we were ready to crawl into bed. While the journey may not have officially started yet, it definitely feels like we have already made it somewhere important—and are exactly where we are supposed to be.

Just like that, we are as ready as we will ever be.

Fair winds & following seas,
The Admiral, Chef, Flotilla Magic Watcher
Sentindo Bem (SB)

Day 1, Friday Harbor to Ganges

It was an early morning for everyone. We aimed to be pushing off around 8:00 a.m. on May 12, with an 8:15 drone photo shoot in the bay. The models were ready. Awake on time, cleaned up, coffee consumed, perky, and happy to be here. There was no room for nerves—it was too early, and we all had too much on our minds. A good place to be. Busy, present, and excited. One by one, we let off our lines and filed out of the marina like a well-oiled machine.

Everyone was accounted for plus one, the wind. Well, she was the guest who showed up uninvited. And not even the “oh man, she is blowin”—cancel the shoot” kind, but the subtle kind. The kind you don’t realize is there until you go to fly the drone and suddenly wonder whether she’ll actually land where you try to park her on a moving target. It was at this point, around 8:30, that the photo shoot was canceled, and the starting gates were officially opened.

Without hesitation, like they were made for this moment, Stimpy was the first to pass. On a plane and flying through the water like a knife through soft butter. ETA to Ganges, the blink of an eye. Within the next ten minutes, the other fast ones took off too. Kiora, followed by Green Frog, with C-Otter deciding to join in as well. Leaving us slow boats to eat sea dust and make another cup of coffee.

With only 27 miles to go, the day wasn’t meant to be too long. Even with customs, we had an expected arrival time of noon. Once customs was cleared, the rest of the run was a straight shot & smooth sailing. The day goes smoothly until it doesn’t. I personally do not remember packing Murphy’s Law, but somehow, he makes an appearance every time. Unfortunately, Kiora made close friends with him today.

Now, there’s a saying, I think, that goes something like “best-case scenario.” Usually accompanied by a bad situation. While I’m still personally trying to figure out how a bad situation could be a best-case scenario, this was mentioned in passing with each other. Imagine being in a car and having a major engine failure in the middle of nowhere. BUT then a friend happens to pass by and can give you a ride to the nearest parking lot. After many hours of phone calls, you suddenly have five to ten different versions of your own Planes, Trains, and Automobiles scenario to find a solution… and so, so, so much more. Needless to say, Stimpy was that friend to Kiora today.

These big little moments are where I just beam with pride—to see how instantly strangers step in to help each other, without hesitation. This is a pivotal moment, where strangers transition into friends. Throughout the whole day, people stopped by to see if Kiora needed anything. Tools. A hand. Water. Food. Encouragement. I hope Kiora didn’t want alone time, because there was always someone coming by just to check in. Especially once the mechanic showed up.

The day was full of walks, coffee, shopping, grocery-getting, basil plant acquisition, dog swimming, sun soaking, phone calls, and finally, dinner. Most of the group squeezed into two picnic tables at The Cassette for dinner—a quaint dive bar off the main drag. Nothing like burgers and fries to settle the nerves from months of planning. Laughter is my favorite side dish to a meal. The stories flowed like a well-made ale, and slowly, our cups filled up on the good stuff.

People meandered back to the docks, and slowly, we gathered with our books for Captain’s Hour. There was an exercise handed out alongside the daily brief to help people decide, for their own vessel and future planning, which passage to take. People worked together, shared information, books, and collaborated on answers.

With a plan in place, we all bid goodnight. Exhaustion is hanging in the clear night sky tonight.

Fair winds & following seas,
Sentindo Bem
Ashley Ripley

Day 02; Ganges to Page’s Resort, Silva Bay

What a gift it is to live by the tide, sun, and moon. To chase sunsets and follow the ebbing tide. Being out on the water has its own challenges, no matter how you choose to voyage along her. When you decide to go by boat, there are so many more variables that come with it—electrical, mechanical, fuel, food, water, sewage. Endless opportunities for things to go wrong. Yet many more for things to go beautifully right.

Today, we departed a still-sleepy Ganges Marina. Not before grabbing coffee from Salt Spring Island Coffee Company, paired with almond croissants from Barb’s Buns. We munched, sipped, and soaked in the crisp morning air. It was fun running into our flotillians in different corners of town. At the coffee shop, we bumped into the crews of Stimpy and C-Otter, filling their cups. The crew from Zephyr chatted with us while we were enjoying the morning sun and sweet treats, preparing to collect their own. We perambulated through the main part of town, slowly making our way back toward the marina. Truly, it was a morning for leisure.

Slowly, you could feel the dock waking up. We checked in on Kaiora. Passed out basil leaves from my freshly trimmed plant. Answered questions about routes, cinnamon rolls, the potluck, projects, and the occasional “what do you think about this?” Just before 10 am, the marina opened the fuel dock for us. Time After Time was ready, with Paragon right behind her. Marquess, Lucky Dawg, and Zephyr headed out first, ready to get underway and meet us at Gabriola Pass. Aboard Sentindo Bem, we gave our adios, leaving the fast boats behind. As for Kaiora, he should catch up in a couple of days. The magic of the Inside Passage is at work there.

Heading south out of Ganges Harbour, we passed the Chain Islands – Goat Islet and the Three Sisters. Turning northeast, we passed Scott Point and Nose Point before being spit out into Trincomali Channel. In this channel we will travel most of our 27-nautical-mile day.

Before we were even abeam of Wallace Island Marine Park, Stimpy came flying by. Slowly after came Green Frog, making the whole thing feel like a giant game of leapfrog. Sentindo Bem passed Time After Time and slowly crept up on Zephyr.

As we skimmed past the entrance to Porlier Pass, we could see the unexpected whitecaps out in the Strait of Georgia, making us all the more thankful for last night’s decision to indeed take this route.

Arriving at Gabriola Pass marked the end of a short-but-long haul.

Marquess and Lucky Dawg were already waiting for us. Gabriola Pass is naturally another wonderful place to call the models from our inner boat forward. Each vessel is unique—not just in name, but style, type, and layout.

Here, we waited for the rest of the group to appear.

Sentindo Bem led the pack, and shortly after, the drone was deployed.

One nautical mile later, drone landed, transit complete, and we were clear of the pass. Only three nautical miles remained before tying up at the idyllic Page’s Marina & Resort in Silva Bay, on Gabriola Island.

Truly, Page’s orchestrated the performance of docking ten boats.

One after another, each vessel called in, was cleanly directed to its slip, with helping hands ready to hold lines and secure cleats. In less than an hour, everyone was tied up, settled in, and beginning to exhale.

Page’s now has a new coffee stand at the top of the ramp, complete with chairs to sit and enjoy the serenity the property offers.

The marina store here is one of my favorites—with a large book selection and an impressive assortment of perishable goods, all sourced from the island. Frozen meals made by local restaurants. Beef sticks from the local butcher. Coffee from the roasters in town.

Best of all?

Pastries from the Island Bakery. Fresh out of the oven less than three hours prior.

Chatting, laughing, dogs running and playing—this little corner of the island was alive.

People dispersed naturally. Some went for walks. Games were played. Others sat quietly and read.

We gathered again at 1730 for the potluck.

It was as if the menu had been coordinated: pulled pork, torta, chili, corn casserole, deviled eggs, salad, meat and cheese.

So much incredible food—we couldn’t have done better anywhere else.

The thing that still gets me is that every piece of it came from someone’s boat.

Made in their oven, on their stovetop, or in their Instant Pot.

The creativity required to make each contribution is a treasure in itself.

The potluck carried us swiftly into Captain’s Hour—one of my favorite parts of the day.

Captain’s Hour slowly wound us down for the evening, and once again the group dispersed.

Boat projects. Chasing strange sounds. Finishing wiring. Cleaning up. Work. Settling in.

The connection already feels so strong between this group that I can hardly believe it’s only Day 2.

Over and out,
Pulled Pork Master, 5-deviled-egg eater, baked-good chaser.
— Sentindo Bem

Day 03, Page’s Resort to Smuggler Cove

We have been watching the weather for the last 14+ days. Every day, every hour, every minute, it changes. Will we be able to cross the Strait of Georgia? Will we need an alternative plan?

Today holds three big items—a lot for so early in the trip. First: crossing the Strait of Georgia, a large body of water known for being less than kind to boaters. Second: potentially transiting through Whiskey Golf, an active military testing zone in the Strait of Georgia. Fun, eh? With roughly 20 nautical miles of open water to cross, complete relief doesn’t come immediately on the other side. Because once across the Strait, we still have another six nautical miles to our anchorage. The third item of business, Stern tying.

As if comfortable Page’s wasn’t already hard enough to leave, the daunting day ahead made it that much harder. Waking up at Page’s is like waking in a warm fairytale. Morning birds singing the songs of dawn. Soft water lapping against the docks. The fresh smell of coffee drifting from “Ground Up Dockside” food wagon. I think many of us felt we could have stayed for many more days.

Zephyr was first-off the dock, followed by Time After Time, Marquess, and Lucky Dawg. The four of them already have their joint departures down to an art. Aboard Sentindo Bem, we slipped away a short while later, around 1000. With the crossing ahead and favorable weather in hand, we wanted to take advantage while we could. Estimated arrival, 1300.

According to our check, Whiskey Golf was, in fact, ACTIVE, which meant no crossing through the testing zone. So we adjusted our heading and skirted the southern edge during the crossing. Almost three hours later, we arrived at the hidden entrance to Smuggler Cove. And when there’s a 25-foot-wide catamaran in the group, one tends to assess narrow entrances a little differently. With this entrance just over 30 feet wide and about 20 feet deep, we were skeptical.

Was this actually the right choice for Zephyr? After we entered the mouth and headed into the first half-bay, a quick glance behind showed Zephyr lined up and ready for her grand entrance. A quick one-eye-closed thumb-and-finger measurement had her looking like she’d fit just fine.

With not much swing room, stern ties are tucked throughout the several bays in Smuggler Cove. Stern-tie setup is fairly unique. A large bolt embedded in the rock, roughly five feet above high tide, with about four feet of heavy chain hanging down. The goal is to suspend your boat between your bow anchor and the stern line run ashore. That stern line runs from one aft quarter of the boat, then through the chain on shore, and back to the opposite aft quarter—creating a bridal effect.

The drill of stern tying was unfamiliar for many. Though honestly, I’m not sure drill is the right word. It felt more like a balancing act of suspension, breath-holding, testing physics, and skill. Slowly, we hailed each vessel, helping them choose a stern tie location and set their anchors. Personally, I love this part. Getting to know each participant and how they approach anchoring. Offering small suggestions that sometimes open entirely new ways of doing something.

Lucky Dawg beat us all in and had their stern tie looking polished by the time we were setting Sentindo Bem. After we got ourselves secure, we checked on Zephyr. What really told us they had it under control was their Swedish crewmate, barefoot on the rocks. Confidence. We called on the next boat, Marquess. We headed out to assist, which was a good call, as they asked for a little extra help setting the hook. While I worked with them, Kyle assisted Time After Time. From there, we brought in Green Frog, Paragon, C-Otter, and Stimpy. Like a line of well-placed dominoes, we all fell into place.

I’d say the real skill here wasn’t the stern tying itself. It was the orchestration – Placement, Anchoring, Spacing, Timing, Communication. Nine boats secured in two hours. Just in time for the evening drizzle to arrive.

Smuggler Cove offers countless little corners to explore, both by land and sea, keeping everyone busy until our 1900 Captain’s Hour aboard SB. Tomorrow, destination Lund. Tonight, peaceful rest and a little self-celebration for a job well done.

Standing by,
-Weather Watcher, Stern tie conductor, Captains Hour enthusiast
Sentindo Bem

Day 04, Smuggler Cove to  Lund

Today marks our longest day yet at 42 nautical miles—from the hidden refuge of Smuggler Cove to the hustle and bustle of the small town of Lund.

If you’re unfamiliar, Lund marks the end (or beginning) of Highway 101, where the road terminates at the boat launch. Fitting for this little town, as it serves as the jumping-off point for so many travelers heading into the islands that define this area. Lund is a hub for water taxis and landing craft, delivering passengers and goods throughout the archipelago.

Time After Time got the ball rolling, departing at 0700. Lucky Dawg followed suit, with Marquess 2 and Green Frog right behind them.

Sentindo Bem made her way out sharply at 0800, leaving the quiet sanctuary we had called home for the night.

Heading into Malaspina Strait was nothing like the calm waters we encountered crossing the Strait of Georgia. Instead, we were greeted with a steady 10–15 knots of southerly wind. Texada Island offered a brief moment of reprieve, but it didn’t last long.

Before we knew it, we were passing Grilse Point at the north end of Texada and back into the bumps. Unfortunately for us, the rest of the ride offered little relief. The next 18 miles could not pass fast enough.

Arriving in Lund brought a collective sense of relief. Docking, however, presented its own challenge. For some, rafting was a first—really rounding this trip into a week of new experiences.

As for Zephyr, they arrived last—not because they were slow, but because they were having entirely too much fun. Sailing is, after all, about the journey. The crew aboard Zephyr made the most of it, flying full sails and testing out a new Code Zero. Their fastest speed of the day? 9.9 knots. According to the report, they were left with a taste for just a little more speed.

Lund was alive with movement. Water taxis came and went every ten minutes or less. To our delight, it was also opening day for prawns. Commercial fish boats, one after another, were unloading fresh prawns to the shipping companies. A few of us were lucky enough to find boats willing to sell directly to us. What a gift.

Lund also offered us a bakery with exceptionally good berry cinnamon rolls—something I would absolutely come back for. The rest of the day slipped by quickly. Some wandered through the sweater shop. Others made their way to the market.

There were two restaurants to choose from, both offering one of my personal favorites: fish and chips.

Slowly, the evening wound down. We gathered for Captain’s Hour, the routine now beginning to feel familiar. Tonight also brought another surprise: A birthday. If there’s any excuse to bake a cake, I’ll take it. If there isn’t one? I’ll make one. Like a surprise birthday. Tonight’s celebration was for one of the crew aboard Green Frog.

Before I could blink, we were working through the daily brief. Tomorrow: Campbell River, Discovery Harbour. The currents here are no joke, so plenty of specific coordination will be needed to ensure we enter the harbour with safe water under our keel.

But before any of that? The first thing on my itinerary:
Baked goods at 0800 from Nancy’s Bakery.

Until the next tide,
Berry roll enthusiast, prawn opportunist, current calculator
-Sentindo Bem

Day 5, Lund to Campbell River

Lund was awake with the birds. The smells of Nancy’s Bakery wafted down the docks hours before I was ready to rise from my slumber. As the morning sun crept through the clouds, feeding both my soul and my plants, I meandered down the dock, ready to taste the warm, soft, sweet magic of the famous blackberry cinnamon roll.

Claiming to have already had too many sweets, Time After Time was ready to get off the dock just before 0800. With a little help from Kyle, the crew of Green Frog, and myself, she bid us farewell and was off. There’s current to contend with today going into Discovery Harbour, and she knows her boat—and her capabilities—well.

Kyle and Kaiora were distracted with charts and route planning, so Otis and I made a beeline for the bakery. If you haven’t been properly introduced yet, Otis is our flotilla mascot. A large mixed-breed boat dog. He attends all Captain’s Hours and has something to say about most things.

The morning in Lund was short-lived. Sentindo Bem slipped off the dock by 0900, with Time After Time, Marquess, Lucky Dawg, and Zephyr having taken their usual head start.

Today’s run was roughly 20 nautical miles. A little wind chop, but overall, an easy day.

The challenge is getting into our next stop. Discovery Harbour, in Campbell River, sits just off Discovery Passage, where the current is known to rip. The goal is to enter during “slack,” though truthfully, there’s never really a true slack there.

The strategy? Crab walk in, fight the current, and be ready to straighten up and slow down the moment you enter the breakwater. I promise there’s more to it than that, but honestly… that’s really what it boils down to.

We arrived around 1150, staring down about 3 knots of current on the nose. Slack had supposedly been at 1140, though we’re fairly convinced Time After Time and Lucky Dawg were the only two who truly made it through during the lightest window.

Campbell River offered many treasures: Canadian Tire, grocery stores, marine stores, a thrift store, showers, coffee, and a much-anticipated group dinner. We all dispersed and used the few hours exactly as needed. The next week takes us far from civilization—just the way we like it. With two more potlucks and two more happy hours on the horizon, everyone needed to make sure they were properly provisioned.

At 1800, we gathered to eat. Royal Aroma remains my favorite place to grab a bite in busy Campbell River. You either have to know where it is or rely on Google Maps to find it. Hidden down a side street, tucked into a back corner across from a parking lot, you’d never guess some of the best Indian food was hiding there in almost plain sight.

Most of us ordered multiple dishes, passing plates around, sharing bites, and tasting things we hadn’t tried before. The laughter was loud. Stories flowed freely. The rich spices had me feeling much farther from home than we actually were. Naturally, I ordered an extra dish to-go for tomorrow’s lunch.

With full bellies, we waddled back to the docks, the nearly-too-long walk helping digestion along. Captain’s Hour was aboard Sentindo Bem tonight. Tonight, we plan for tomorrow, Seymour Narrows—a true rite of passage for Inside Passage boaters. Questions. Answers. Route talk. Departure times. Homework reviewed. Plans made. 

Slowly, everyone drifted back to their boats. Bellies full, minds full, and plenty to consider for the day ahead.

Standing by for Seymour,
Blackberry roll enthusiast, current negotiator, curry collector.
— Sentindo Bem 

Day 06, May 17th | Campbell River to Blind Channel Resort

There are certain transits that feel like a true rite of passage, and Seymour Narrows is one of them.

If you’ve ever boated up the east side of Vancouver Island, chances are someone has asked, “Have you done Seymour?” Even with the daunting Ripple Rock no longer being there, clearing this narrow section still feels like a milestone. That question is usually followed by warnings about the nearly unpredictable weather patterns of Johnstone Strait.

If you study the weather, understand the area, and know what signs to look for, you can get a pretty good sense of what to expect. Teaching this rite of passage is one of our favorite parts of the trip.

Waking up in Campbell River, aiming to hit the noon slack early, gave us a little extra time for those last forgotten essentials. More groceries. Mint plants. Coffee shop coffee. Extra steps in the last big town for a while.

If I were really smart, I would have ordered one more Indian dish to-go, as it’ll be my last for a bit. Sentindo Bem slipped off the dock around 1000. Our goal is to be at Seymour Narrows around 1115. With slack at 1208, transitioning from a 7-knot ebb into a 15-knot flood, we expected to still see as much as 4 knots of current moving with us through the narrows.

Leaving Discovery Harbour, we fell in line behind a large barge, which provided us with endless entertainment as she crab-walked this way and that through Johnstone Strait. 

Seymour itself came and went smoothly. One hurdle cleared. Once through, we still had 21 nautical miles remaining to our final destination. Not a particularly long day by mileage, but the miles stretched on as the tide shifted to flood—and here, flood means southbound current.

Eventually, we all made it into Blind Channel Resort & Marina. Walking in front of the main building, birds swoop and chirp overhead—acting as some of the longtime residents there to offer greetings. 

Along the waterfront, patio seating overlooked the marina, and flotillians came and went in easy waves. Chatting. Relaxing. Sharing stories from the day. Making hiking plans. Asking what everyone was ordering for dinner.

Tonight was special. Blind Channel wasn’t yet in full swing for the season, but they opened the restaurant just for us. Not only that, but we had the delightfully unique experience of having our dinner orders taken while we casually meandered around the grounds.

Just before dinner, we gathered for Captain’s Hour under the covered outdoor patio overlooking the marina. Finally—the right setting for a proper group photo.

Dinner came, and wowed us all. Hours passed, chatting, laughing, sharing wine and dessert. No  one left hungry.

With full bellies, we laughed, wandered, and eventually made our way back to our floating homes.

Tomorrow brings an early morning, and sleep is needed. While we may have cleared one hurdle, we’re not through them all yet. 

Incoming weather has brought a change to the itinerary. One that everyone seems to be happy about… despite the early wake-up.

Over and out,
Ripple Rock historian, barge heckler, Captain’s Hour regular
-Sentindo Bem

Day 7, May 18th | Blind Channel to Lagoon Cove

Mother Nature always has a way of making her own statements on these journeys. Not always such subtle reminders of who is actually in charge.

What was planned as a short day to Forward Harbour became a longer—and much earlier—day to Lagoon Cove. Why? Another guest at the table: adverse weather. Mother Nature was kind to us this time, arriving in a measurable and early enough way that we had the opportunity to change plans before departure.

Time After Time was first off the dock this morning, departing at 0540. Marquess, Zephyr, Idyll Time (yes, a temporary early arrival to the story), Lucky Dawg, Sentindo Bem, and Paragon followed suit. From there, we all steamed ahead—our sleepy floating homes meandering through the channel, dodging debris like a late-night drunk walk home, heels in hand.

Leaving the fast boats behind to enjoy the morning songbirds from the dock. Have you heard of Stimpy Eats? It’s a new business venture we’re testing. The slow boats get underway, and Stimpy waits behind for the fresh baked goods, then—with speed and agility—delivers them to us at the next stop. Stimpy Eats: The Traveling Bakery.  Honestly, it has a ring to it. 

While the journey to Lagoon Cove came with an early alarm, I genuinely enjoy the challenge of hunting currents through these channels. And today, they were with us all day—which is exactly why we left so early. Reading the water like my favorite book, I was able to keep Sentindo Bem consistently above 10 knots. At one point, hugging the shoreline, while others held mid-channel, we zipped past at 13.6 knots. A deeply satisfying moment.

It was easy to tell weather was moving in, and equally obvious that today was the day to clear Johnstone Strait. There were 20 other pleasure yachts all moving in the same direction, within about a 10-mile radius. Truly a Calgary migration heading north.

Our little squad pulled north out of Johnstone Strait toward Chatham Channel—a secondary front door into Lagoon Cove. Navigating Chatham Channel feels a bit like driving old Highway 66 toward the off-the-beaten-path towns people skip over—but absolutely shouldn’t. Because those are the places packed with personality, charm, and heart.

Lagoon Cove greeted us on the radio as we rounded the final corner into the bay. Like a warm cup of tea on a cold, rainy day. The experts they are, they shuffled us into our slips for the night like a card dealer working a well-practiced deck. Lagoon Cove celebrates 10 years under its current owners.

Every evening, you can count on the lovely family here to host a potluck outside the shop. Each night, they provide fresh-caught prawns, and everyone else brings something—anything—to share. This year, they’ve upgraded the deck outside the shop to host everyone on. 

No sooner had the slow boats tied up than Stimpy Eats arrived. The fresh baked cinnamon rolls could be smelled before Stimpy even had a chance to secure her lines. Practically leaping aboard, I began plating and dishing out the still-warm treats. Of course, one was reserved for our lovely hosts at Lagoon Cove.

The chatter was lively, and slowly we all sank into the affection this place inspires. It would be very easy to spend many nights here.

Sentindo Bem standing by,
— Cinnamon roll server, current hunter, prawn chaser.

Day 8, May 19th | At Lagoon Cove

Day 9, May 20th | Lagoon Cove to New Vancouver

It was one of those days that feels like it should start early… but doesn’t have to. Lagoon Cove provides freshly brewed coffee in the mornings, and there is truly nothing quite like coffee made by someone else, no matter how you take your cup of joe.

With serenity all around us, I took advantage of the dockside tables and set up to work for a while. The flow of people passing by, the chatter on the docks, good mornings, hellos, and how did you sleep? brings a specific kind of energy with its own unique flavor. Soft, slumbered whisperings that allow the day to unfold naturally.

The next stretch of this trip brings shorter travel days, slower mornings, and full evenings. Today was a perfect example. We started the gentle coaching of getting off the dock just after 1000.

This morning gave way to one of my favorite things in boating: Watching women take the helm. Of course, our lady captain aboard Time After Time is an inspiration to many. But today, the co-captain aboard Lucky Dawg took the opportunity to practice. Calm weather. Great docks. Plenty of room. Conditions like that practically beg us to try something new.

As for myself, I took the opportunity to practice turning on my nose at the dock—seeing how well I could keep my bow pinned in a singular spot while rotating over myself. Another perfect opportunity to sharpen skills and challenge myself.

Today’s route took us south into Knight Inlet, then west along the north shore of Turnour Island, weaving between small rocks and islands, passing inviting little bays meant for future exploration.

Tsatsisnukwomi, also known as New Vancouver, hosts a large U-shaped dock with new bull rails all around, making it wonderfully easy to tie up. Sentindo Bem arrived first, giving us the chance to assess the available space for 10 boats.

Using the VHF, I stepped into my role as floating air traffic control, slowly calling each boat in one at a time. As one approached, I queued up the next—letting them know where they were headed, what side tie to prepare for, and what dock conditions to expect.

Tetris was one of my favorite games as a child, and honestly… this feels like the grown-up version. We tucked Lucky Dawg alongside Sentindo Bem. Time After Time rafted to Paragon, who was on the dock. Zephyr took the end, with Green Frog behind. Kaiora rafted to Green Frog, bringing us around to Stimpy on the dock, with C-Otter rafted alongside.

Slowly, as we all fell into place, we found the silent drum of New Vancouver ready to embrace us. Happy Hour was held aboard Sentindo Bem, with light finger foods and an early Captain’s Hour to carry us into the evening.

Entering the Broughtons feels like a transition of mind, space, and time. With the family’s Big House prominently on the hill, you can’t help but be drawn toward the energy of the place. Happy Hour ended. Captain’s Hour closed. Books were peeled open, exploring what history and stories we could find about the area.

But truly, nothing compares to hearing those stories directly from someone within the community. Some of us were lucky enough to have exactly that experience. A private tour of the grounds. The stories held within the totem poles. An intimate look inside the Big House. An honor. A gift. We asked questions.

Beauty, art, past, presence, and future. All around us. The regalia hanging on the walls. Totems inside and out. The fireplace at the center. Even the sand beneath our feet—from where the community once lived. It all is alive. Each piece holding its own story, if only we allowed ourselves to be still enough to listen.

For over two hours, Liz Gillford—our guide and a local community member—shared her knowledge with us. Her daughter accompanied us every step of the way. We left mesmerized. Full of information. Brimming with thoughts, questions, and a genuine sense of welcome.

Slowly, the sun had been setting. Closing one day, while making space for the next. This portion of the trip may be slowly nearing its end… but today reminded me that my own journey is only just beginning.

Over and Out,
Grateful guest, Floating traffic controller, lifelong student
– Sentindo Bem

Day 10, May 21st | New Vancouver to Echo Bay

Echo Bay is where we call home for the next two nights.

With new docks in 2025 and new ownership since 2021, Echo Bay has entered a new chapter. The Kwikwasutinuxw Haxwa’mis First Nation purchased Echo Bay Marina & Lodge in 2021, and now we are lucky enough to be invited to help them kick off the season—to witness all of the hard work that has brought them to the opening of 2026.

We opted to leave New Vancouver around 0900, aiming to arrive at our home-away-from-home early enough for everyone to settle in and explore.

A short day by our standards—just 13 nautical miles. A straightforward run through small  channels, around large rocks, past tucked-away bays and tiny communities. So many places quietly calling our names for a future return.

While underway, it was the sharp eyes of Kyle, my co-captain, who spotted our first bear. A quick call went out to the flotillians, and one by one, boats slowed, turned, and meandered over for a respectful look. Keeping plenty of distance, we watched the majestic creature flip rocks as though they were pebbles—hungry after hibernation and focused on breakfast.

After some time, everyone resumed course. Not even thirty minutes later, Green Frog made the next bear call. While the flotilla paused for round two, we aboard Sentindo Bem pressed on, taking advantage of the opportunity to get ahead and secure dock space early.

Echo Bay was ready and welcoming. With a starboard-side tie preferred, I took the opportunity to practice a maneuver I’ve been enjoying lately—turning on my nose, backing into the fairway, and easing along the linear dock. Slow and steady, with just enough help from current and wind, Sentindo Bem came in with the gentlest kiss against the dock. Exquisite. Deeply satisfying.

One of my favorite jobs is stepping into the role of floating flight deck controller. Calling boats in one at a time. Assigning dock placement, side tie directions, and conditions they can expect during docking. Clear. Concise. Short. Sharp. Boat placement becomes a live puzzle—power needs, vessel lengths, beam widths, docking confidence, and then the part many people forget: The exit plan. My mind working both for the present moment and the future departure.

Once tied up, we all began the process of getting cozy at the dock. Power connected. Dogs walked. Office check-ins completed. And the day was shaping into a beautiful, sunny one.

A group of us gathered for a long walk. Up the ramp, past the sauna and hot tub, we found a beautiful bluff with swings overlooking the marina and a fire pit inviting future conversations. Many stayed there, soaking in the view.

A smaller trio continued down the trail, taking advantage of the informative reader boards tucked along the route all the way to Billy Proctor’s Museum. Though the museum itself wasn’t yet open for the season, we were happy to find the trail clear, accessible, and well maintained.

The museum sits tucked into its own small bay. The perfect place for Otis to swim and enjoy the cool water on a warm sunny day. Flowers still grew where gardens once thrived. A barren chicken coop sat behind the house. Red tin roofs waited for attention. I could feel the life that had once been lived here. Hear Billy’s footsteps beside mine along the dock. And I swear, I could almost see his old blue speedboat tied up nearby.

Silence fell between the three of us. Each of us drifting into our own quiet places, far from that small beach and yet somehow deeply rooted there. Slowly, we returned to the present moment and made our way back to the boats.

Tonight brought a potluck under the “Welcome Waggoner” sign near the office. And a special guest. John Macko, who lives on Alert Bay—an Elder, Chief, and our chef for tomorrow evening’s experience. We all gathered, the air thick with laughter, curiosity, and just a touch of exhaustion.

Ten days is a long time. And while everyone was delighted to spend two nights in one place, I think we were all ready for the slower pace.

The evening melted gently into night. The cleanup was easy. Bellies were full. One by one, we waddled back to our floating cabins, everyone having brought their A-game to tonight’s potluck.

Tomorrow promises something special. Something unique.

Standing by,
Dock orchestrator, museum dreamer, grateful guest.
-Sentindo Bem

Day 11, May 22nd | A Special Day in Echo Bay

I don’t even know how to write about this day and do it justice. So many things happened that created an experience I know I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

Not only because friendships continue to evolve in their own living way—especially the kind forged through shared challenge, encouragement, mutual respect, and truly seeing one another—but because days rooted in generosity, respect, and invitation leave marks deeper than words can easily explain.

Today began with a little bit of lighthearted magic. A pop-up coffee stand by yours truly.

“No Wake Espresso”… or perhaps “A-Wake Espresso.” I’m still taking votes on the name.

I made a coffee cake that I still cannot get over—a recipe gifted to me by Celebrate, a flotilla participant from last June. Alongside it were two scone varieties: blueberry-orange zest, and cinnamon chocolate chip—another recommendation courtesy of Celebrate.

By borrowing Lucky Dawg’s oven, we had everything baked and ready just after 0800. Doors open. Flotillians slowly filter in. Mellow indie tunes playing. The hiss of the milk wand. The rich smell of espresso in the air. Lattes, Americanos, iced chais. Shots pouring. Drinks slinging.

Eventually, even this barista sat down for conversation when John Macko stopped by for a latte—and a bit of flour for the evening meal. 

The rest of the afternoon unfolded gently. Conversations naturally broke apart as people drifted into their own versions of the day. Kyle and I had a post-flotilla planning meeting with a boat leaving from Port McNeill. Others explored trails, tackled laundry, took long showers, read books, and ate ice cream.

Echo Bay has a way of offering rejuvenation. As for me, I wandered back into the kitchen to do what I love most: Help, observe, and learn. The day moved quietly forward until, before I realized it, Chief Rick walked into the kitchen accompanied by two other Chiefs who would be joining us that evening. Chairs were pulled up, introductions were made & stories began to move around the room like offerings. It was very clear we were in for something deeply special.

As more boats arrived and guests gathered, nearly 60 people eventually filled the event hall and surrounding spaces. Handshakes, hugs, introductions. Doing my absolute best to remember names. Then suddenly—it was time. We found our seats. What followed is something I still find myself quietly turning over in my mind. 

This was not simply a dinner. It was an invitation to their table. Chief Rick Johnson, master of ceremonies, welcomed us and opened the evening with song and dance. The steady beat of the drum. The resonance of voices. The language. The event hall transformed.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the channel became the backdrop to an evening rooted in story, place, and presence. We were introduced to Chief Robert Joseph, who welcomed us with warmth and encouragement. Then to Chief Mike Willie, whose storytelling carried extraordinary power. 

Chief Mike guided us through places with words. Through the Broughtons, down Knight Inlet, north toward the four-peaked mountain, out toward the spearing rock. Through channels, islands, and bays. He offered glimpses of history, of relationship to land and water, of continuity, resilience, and the importance of culture and traditional ways—not only historically, but in the present and future.

It is difficult to adequately describe what it felt like to be carried through that telling. Then something entirely unexpected happened. Chief Rick invited me up to dance. Pre-event he did ask, and naturally I said of course I would dance if he asked. With that, he called for three volunteers from our flotilla as well.

Behind a cloth marked with their house wolves, we were dressed in their regalia. Gently coached for the dance we were being invited to participate in, the Peace Dance. I had never experienced anything like it. The drum began. And before I fully understood the moment, we were moving. Then, just as suddenly, we were gently returned to ourselves.

Back to the room. Back to our chairs. Still ourselves—and yet somehow changed. Dinner was ready, and we were invited to plate first as guests. The room came alive in a different way. People meeting, questions being asked. Stories exchanged across entirely different lives.

As dinner wound down, more songs were shared—songs of thanks. Chief Rick spoke again. Then invited Kyle and I to say a few words. There are moments when language feels wildly insufficient. So instead, I offered what felt true, a gift. A loaf of bread, baked in my floating home, tended to by my own hands, and an invitation to our table—wherever our paths may cross again.

Hugs were exchanged, cleanup began, and just like that, the event hall emptied.

So I sat for a moment. Looking out over the channel, watching the water move past. Still hearing the drums in my bones, feeling the songs in the air. 

Eventually, our flotillians gathered aboard Sentindo Bem for Captain’s Hour. A shared quiet settled over all of us, a kind of reverence. Then, just like that, the day was over.

One of the most profound days of my life.

Gone before I was ready.

Gilakas’la,
— Sentindo Bem

Day 12, May 23rd | Echo Bay to Sullivan Bay

It was a slow morning, and we all seemed to need it. The magic of the night before, still hung thick in the air, accompanied by a kind of muffled silence that had settled gently over the group.

All of us adrift in the currents of our own thoughts, still processing the experience we had shared. As 1000 rolled around, slowly, one by one, we peeled ourselves away from the docks.

You can feel how much this community wants the success of Echo Bay. Proud to welcome visitors, proud to share their home, proud to invest in a future rooted in both community and hospitality.

As we departed, we waved goodbye to a place that had offered us care, generosity, insight, and hope. Today’s destination is Sullivan Bay. A slow morning paired with a short run. Just 16 nautical miles. A little over two hours underway—just enough time to settle into the movement of the water beneath our keels.

Sullivan Bay is a quaint floating community. The entire marina is built atop floating docks and walkways, suspended above the water by logs, barrels, and other ingenious means of flotation.

If you walk the length of the docks and down “Main Avenue”—home to the store, laundry, restaurant, and a handful of residences—you can easily put a kilometer under your belt. One thing we hadn’t encountered elsewhere, and which many people took advantage of, was the floating gym. Small, warm, and dry. Workout equipment, a treadmill, space to stretch. A surprisingly welcome addition. Truly a one-stop shop.

That evening, we gathered beneath Sullivan Bay’s happy hour tent, ready to enjoy the leftovers from our special dinner at Echo Bay. Two other boaters happened to be on the docks with us. Naturally, we invited them to join us. That’s just how boating with the Ripleys works.

Tonight carried another reason to celebrate. A birthday. While I didn’t bake a cake this time, I did arrange a tray of desserts worthy of holding candles. I have always loved celebrating people when they least expect it. And this particular crewmember from Green Frog certainly wasn’t expecting it.

Truthfully, it surprised many people that I even knew. In her wonderfully spicy spirit, Time After Time led us through not one rendition of “Happy Birthday,” but two. Because women celebrating women seems to be something that happens naturally when gathered on the water.

Slowly, as it always does, the evening began to wind down. Sullivan Bay felt like a special place to land so near the end of this unique journey. Some people went for walks, others gathered around games. Many simply lingered on the docks in conversation.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that we were no longer strangers. How could we be after sharing so many days together? Friendships had formed. Relationships that would continue long after we stopped floating alongside one another.

As the sun set, so did we. Our floating tubs—warm, comfortable, and mostly dry—called us home. So we tucked ourselves in.

For some, there is still a long way to go north. For others, home is just around the corner.

Over and out,
Birthday conspirator, dock wanderer, friendship collector.
— Sentindo Bem

Day 13, May 24th | Sullivan Bay to Waddington Bay

This is it. The last of the days spent adventuring together. We have 21 nautical miles between Sullivan Bay and Waddington Bay—a serene, spacious, and bombproof anchorage. Needless to say, Mother Nature could feel the sorrow in our hearts, because rain was in the forecast.

We departed Sullivan around 0900. Early enough to enjoy the evening in a new place. Late enough to sleep in and perambulate the docks one last time. 

It was remarkable how natural it felt to chat with my boat neighbors, as though I had known them for years. All along the dock, I watched it happen. People drifting between conversations. A community in motion. 

Sullivan was kind, welcoming, unique, and easy. Everything we needed, right when we needed it. Slowly, we all departed. Zephyr usually first out, with Marquess and Time After Time close behind. 

Today, however, Zephyr turned left out of the marina while the rest of the fleet went right. The wind across Queen Charlotte Strait made it the perfect day for her to sail to Port McNeill a day early and tackle a few heater projects, along with the endless list of other boat jobs.

As for the rest of us, we retraced our path through the Broughtons. Weaving through the islands like thread through silk. Delicate. Smooth. Steady. From the north side of North Broughton Island, we headed southeast, past Sullivan Point, Cartwright Point, and onward through Penphrase Passage. Slowly, we paddled onward. The whole lot of us. 

Time inching us forward, closer to the end. Like a sunset rich in color—bittersweet and full. A blanket of understanding seemed to settle over us all. While this chapter may be nearing its end, it isn’t goodbye. Relationships like these don’t simply fade into the past. The boating world is far too small for that. This isn’t the final sunset. It’s the first sunset of many great things still to come. 

Waddington Bay swallowed us whole. As we rounded the corner, it felt as though we had entered the belly of something existing entirely within its own universe. The wind stayed outside. The world became still. One by one, we found our places for the night. And as the anchors dropped, so did the first raindrops. Slowly, the sky cried for us. Washing the salt from our cheeks and our windshields.

Kyle and I loaded into the dinghy, took the furry one ashore, wandered through the woods, and returned to make our rounds. One by one, we stopped at every boat. Paragon. Marquess. Time After Time. Lucky Dawg. Tonight marked the beginning of our goodbyes, accompanied by our final daily brief. It felt natural for Captain’s Hour to become something more intimate. Onward we went. C-Otter. Stimpy. Kaiora. And finally, Green Frog. The rain never stopped. Neither did we.

Holding my face to the sky, I let it wash over me. Wash the salt from my skin. A cleansing I didn’t know I needed.

Before the evening was done, we picked up Joey, the crew dog from Time After Time, and took both fuzzy boys ashore. One last run through the woods together.

The bay was quiet. Still. Shrouded in a melancholy that even the rain couldn’t wash away. The night ended slowly. The only thing moving slower than the boats underway.

Over and out,
Dinghy driver, friendship collector, rain watcher
— Sentindo Bem

Day 14, May 25th | Waddington Bay to Port McNeill

I may not be superstitious, but there are a few things I live by. I never say never. Anything can happen. It’s not if, but when. I don’t call “last run.” Being both a skier and a two-wheel rider, you just don’t do it. Injuries seem to happen when it’s the “last one” of the day. I do my best not to leave port on a Friday if it’s the start of a trip.

And I never say I’ll never run aground. Mostly because I already have. Very early in my sailing career—like the second day of our first overnight aboard our sailboat over ten years ago—I ever so gently kissed a sandbar in Puget Sound. We didn’t have charts. We didn’t have a depth sounder. Let’s just say many lessons were learned that weekend.

What I do believe in is preparation. We educate ourselves. We seek training. We learn from experience and from those around us. Kyle and I have spent over two hundred days of every year on the water for the last seven years. We have towed our fair share of boats. We have experienced failures in less-than-ideal situations. We come from a delivery background, and I cannot think of a single delivery where something didn’t break or go differently than planned.

Shit happens. Not if, but how. What someone doesn’t expect is to arrive at an anchorage and find themselves perched on a reef extending beyond the breakwater.

There is tremendous value in traveling with experienced people. Not because they prevent every problem. Because when a problem occurs, there are extra eyes, extra hands, extra knowledge, extra equipment, local contacts, and a support network already in place.

If there is such a thing as a soft rock, that’s probably what can be found just west of the entrance to North Island Marina in Port McNeill. Unfortunately for Paragon, they were the ones to discover it. 

Things like groundings happen fast. What truly makes the difference is what happens next. Fortunately, Paragon had been waiting outside the marina until called in. Once instructed to proceed, they eased forward at idle speed. Unfortunately, the wind had other plans. It steadily pushed them westward and onto the reef.

I heard it. Saw it. Felt it. Calling to Kyle, I was already loading the dinghy before the radio call came. The tide was falling—and quickly. Then came the hail.

“Sentindo Bem, Sentindo Bem, Sentindo Bem. This is Paragon. We have gone aground. We have gone aground.” I could hear the crack in their voice. 

“Sentindo Bem here. I have eyes on you. Water has already receded. Don’t do anything. We are on our way.” Bilge pump in a bag. Tow line. Bridle. Everything loaded into the dinghy.

Kyle departed while I remained behind to continue helping the rest of the fleet safely into the marina. The first assessment brought both the best and worst news. No through-hull penetration. No immediate water ingress. The only thing to do? Wait.

Every hour seemed to pass slower than the one before. Finally, low tide arrived. The water receded enough for us to inspect everything we could see. Another dinghy ride out. A careful examination. Bow scuffs. Running gear; clear. Shaft; untouched. Rudder; free. Props; unscathed. We circled again. And again. A couple scratches on the bow were all we could find.

Remarkably, Paragon had settled perfectly into a cradle of rocks. Two rounded rocks on the starboard side seemed almost intentionally placed there, propping the vessel upright like boat stands in a yard. The port side sat clear. Meanwhile, the starboard prop rested mere inches from much less forgiving rock. To this day, we remain amazed that both props escaped without a single ding.

As a precaution, we contacted local resources and arranged for a truck and trailer to stand by. While Port McNeill doesn’t have a haul-out facility, there are operators nearby with large transport trailers if needed. Fortunately, the inspection continued to point toward patience rather than escalation.

Now all we needed was water. We helped Paragon deploy a stern anchor as a kedge. A small anchor with rope only—no chain—set approximately twenty feet off the port stern quarter. The purpose was simple. Keep tension on the stern and ensure the vessel stayed clear of the starboard side rocks as the tide returned.

From there, we rigged a bridle off the stern of our dinghy. Load evenly distributed. Towline attached. Everything prepared. I use the word “tow” lightly. There would be no pulling. No forcing. No trying to overpower the situation. The tide would do the work. Our job was simply to be ready when it did.

Groundings often become expensive not because of the initial contact, but because of what happens next. A panicked attempt to power off. A rushed decision. An unwillingness to wait for more information. In this case, patience became our most valuable tool.

Crew aboard continued checking the bilges. No water. Everything looked as good as it possibly could. Around 1900, the water finally approached the level we needed. We took up tension on tow line. Just enough. No more, no less. The goal was simply to guide the boat once it floated free. 

Slowly, we watched Paragon come back to life. Water climbed the hull. The boat settled into her natural waterline. Mobility returned. Twenty minutes later, at what felt like a snail’s pace, she released. Smoothly. Effortlessly. As though she had simply been waiting for the tide all along. We eased her away from the rocks while the crew retrieved the kedge anchor.

Bilges checked again. Still dry. Things were looking very good. Paragon fired up. The bridle came in. Kyle stepped aboard for a sea trial. I returned to the dock to prepare for arrival. Still not quite ready to exhale. Not until we knew for certain.

As Paragon completed what felt like a victory lap back into the marina, flotillians gathered at the dock. Ready with hugs. Helping hands. And relief. “Any vibration?” I practically whispered the question, afraid of the answer. “None.” Kyle answered just as quietly.

Sometimes situations like this are difficult to explain. Things can go from manageable to catastrophic in a matter of moments. Had panic taken over and the throttle been pushed forward? Had someone attempted to force the boat off? Had the wind shifted differently? The outcome could have been very different. Instead, the situation was met with calm assessment, preparation, and patience.

Needless to say, Paragon has recently discovered they are, in fact, allergic to rocks.

There were many lessons to be learned that day. The most important one was the lesson we practiced. Patience.

Standing By,
Dinghy driver, problem solver, patience practitioner.
–Sentindo Bem

Day 15, May 26th | Alert Bay & Farewell Dinner

The day started early, despite the excitement from the night before. Today is our final official day together as the 2026 Broughton Flotilla. And it is a full one. The ferry to Alert Bay departs at 0815—earlier than most of us would have preferred—but there was much to see and do.

Slowly, the ferry pulled away from the dock. What a novelty it is to be on a boat and not be at the helm. To simply sit. To chat. To enjoy the ride together. While not everyone made the journey, fourteen of our twenty flotillians made the trip across.

Alert Bay held much for us. A visit to the U’mista Cultural Centre, views of the tallest totem pole, sights of the Big House. And time spent reflecting beside the large Orange Shirt installation honoring the Indigenous children who were taken to residential schools.

It was a full day. The currents were strong, the tides were high, and the skies were brilliantly blue. We wandered the streets, reading about the many chapters that shaped Alert Bay. Logging, Mining, dairy farms, Chinatown, a movie theater and countless other stories woven into this small community. Alert Bay felt far larger than its streets suggest. Rich with history, alive with memory. 

By late afternoon, we boarded the ferry back to our floating homes. Ready to gather one final time for our last official meal together. Dinner was hosted beside a small food truck serving burgers, sandwiches, and wraps. Simple food, good company. Exactly what was needed.

It was here Kyle and I held our final Captain’s Hour. There was no daily brief to give. No departure plans to coordinate, just a few final words. Tears stung my eyes as pride welled in my chest. We made it. We taught, we learned, we experienced, we voyaged, and most importantly, we shared. Shared meals, shared stories, shared laughter, shared breakdowns, shared dock lines, shared hugs. 

Over fifteen days, we watched confidence grow. We saw seamanship improve. We watched understanding deepen around tides, currents, weather, and route planning. We shared some of our favorite places with people who arrived as strangers and will leave as friends.

Now we begin to split apart. Some boats are heading home; Green Frog, Marquess, C-Otter, Time After Time and Lucky Dawg. Departure times are exchanged like playing cards. The rest of us have only a few days before continuing north. The wind is calling, and we intend to follow.

Tonight, promises are made to cruise together again. To meet somewhere out there. Hugs are held a little tighter, a little longer. Eventually, we gather for one final group photo. The sadness is there, but it is not the only thing. There is excitement to continue and readiness to return home.

Hope for another adventure together, and pride in how far we have all come.

Day 15 for the Broughtons. Day 00 for Alaska.

Sentindo Bem standing by, 1-6, 6-9.

–— Flotilla leader, Alaska adventurer, flotillian collector.

 

 

 

 

 

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Southeast Alaska Flotilla

Day 00, May 27–29; Port McNeill — The Gathering

What a unique thing, to meet in order to go, already so far from home. To come together as new faces integrate with the familiar. Two new floating homes join the brigade: Idyll Time, a 48-foot Kadey Krogen, and Cool Change, a 32-foot Cutwater. Alongside them are four familiar names continuing north with us: Paragon, Stimpy, Kaiora, and Zephyr.

Idyll Time was already waiting in Port McNeill, finishing up projects and taking advantage of the dock while they could. Cool Change arrived by trailer from Oregon and launched here, preparing for the adventure ahead.

In the days leading up to departure, everyone dove into the familiar rhythm of trip preparation. Boat projects, laundry, grocery shopping, and food prep filled the hours. Decks were scrubbed, galleys reorganized, fridges and coolers packed with care. Hands were busy, and spirits were high.

Wednesday evening we gathered for our kickoff dinner and first Captain’s Hour. Naturally, the conversation turned to weather and the realities of departure. A weather system had moved in, and the promising windows we’d been watching were beginning to close. After reviewing the forecasts, it was decided we would no longer depart Thursday morning. Instead, we shifted our plans, aiming for a Friday departure that would allow us to stage for a Sunday crossing.

As the days passed, we continued to gather.

On Thursday, several of us wandered over to Smoke and Mirrors, a food truck new to Port McNeill and quickly becoming my favorite place in town. Nearly all of us ordered the Honey Hot Chicken Sandwich—a sandwich I didn’t know I needed in my life until that moment. If you find yourself in Port McNeill, look it up. Seriously. I am practically salivating writing about it.

That evening’s Captain’s Hour once again revolved around weather. The homework assignment from Wednesday had focused on the crossing: What conditions are you comfortable crossing in, and why? What resources are you using? How do you make your decision?

As we worked through the forecasts together, it became clear that Friday’s crossing window had disappeared. We would not be crossing Queen Charlotte Strait. The conditions simply would not be safe or comfortable for all of the boats in the fleet. So we made the decision every cruiser eventually learns to make: another night in port.

Friday morning arrived with fresh banana bread, baked by yours truly. My preferred method of procrastinating the boat projects that we had suddenly been gifted extra time to complete.

The last few days, and especially Friday, the dock talk was thick with questions. “When are you leaving?” “Are you staging?” “How far are you going in one shot?” “What’s your read on the weather?”

I’ve always found it fascinating how differently people interpret weather windows. Conversations about weather often feel a lot like conversations about politics. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone has a preferred source. Everyone is convinced their interpretation is the right one.

Many boaters pointed out that there was “no wind” forecast in the Sound for Saturday. While technically true, we knew better than that. With the tremendous amount of energy that had recently been moving through the Pacific, the sea needed more time to settle. Wave heights remained elevated, and the periods were short. Conditions that may look acceptable on one forecast often tell a different story once you understand what created them.

As Friday evening arrived, we gathered again—as we do.

The activity float in Port McNeill became our meeting place. We shared fresh-cooked prawns and cocktail sauce that tasted sweetly familiar because it was the special recipe from Lagoon Cove. Then Kyle and I received a surprise. The flotilla presented us with a cake in celebration of our wedding reception anniversary, along with a card signed by everyone.

It was a special way to spend a special day: doing the thing we each love, together.

During Captain’s Hour, the weather discussion continued. We studied the forecasts, read the tea leaves, and looked for our next opportunity. Our weather window had held. Saturday morning and early afternoon still looked favorable enough to move. While conditions around Cape Caution remained less than ideal, we decided it was time to leave the dock and begin staging.

The plan was simple: cross Queen Charlotte Strait and spend the night in Allison Harbour.

As Friday night came to a close, we bid each other goodnight. Saturday would not be a difficult run, but it would be an important one. Our chance to finally cast off. To stop preparing and start going. To begin creating the flotilla magic that only happens once we leave the dock behind.

Over and out
Weather watcher, banana bread baker, departure dreamer.
-Sentindo Bem

Day 01, May 30th; Port McNeill to Allison Harbour

Today is finally the day we can leave the dock.

There comes a point where you simply have to go. The weather is good enough, the fridge is stocked, water is full. Boat projects? Eh, there are always more projects to finish and if we waited until everything was done, we would never leave.

Slowly, each boat bid Port McNeill goodbye in its own way. Some got coffee and pastries from Mugs Coffee shop, others found flowers, and a few took long walks through town.

Today is an easy run—35 nautical miles across Queen Charlotte Strait. With no need to rush, Sentindo Bem slipped the dock around 0845. Idyll Time had their sights set on an afternoon nap and departed at 0645, fresh pastries from Mugs Coffee in hand. Zephyr followed around 0830, with Paragon and Cool Change trailing shortly after us. Stimpy brought up the rear, departing around 0945.

And just like that, we were underway. Ready to put some miles beneath us and begin preparing for the next challenge ahead.

As we approached Pulteney Point on Malcolm Island, it became clear we had made the right decision. The sea state was calm, allowing us to adjust our course and make a comfortable diagonal crossing of Queen Charlotte Strait. Rather than hugging one shore or the other, we threaded our way between the Millar Group and the mainland coast of British Columbia.

Along the way, several boats were treated to whales, communities of sea otters, and countless seabirds. It felt as though Mother Nature herself had come out to wish us safe passage and wave us northward.

With speed on their side, Stimpy arrived in Allison Harbour shortly behind Idyll Time. What took Sentindo Bem nearly four hours took Stimpy barely two—even with breaks to enjoy the whale show along the way.

As Sentindo Bem continued her steady pace, Harris Island slipped by to port and Allison Harbour slowly opened before us. By early afternoon, the anchor was set and the dinghy was down.

Allison Harbour hides a small lagoon in its back corner, and it remains one of my favorite places to putter around and explore. We spent some time poking through its quiet waters, keeping an eye out for wildlife and searching for a suitable spot to take Otis ashore.

By 1600, we were back aboard Sentindo Bem for Captain’s Hour.

Tonight’s gathering came with an activity.

Before leaving Port McNeill, we had purchased several coils of 3/8-inch three-strand nylon line, along with an assortment of clips and carabiners. The plan for the evening was simple, learn to braid three-strand rope. Some participants chose to make dog leashes. Others began building anchor bridle lines. Everyone ended up with a better understanding of line splicing.

It turned into one of those unexpectedly wonderful flotilla evenings. Questions flowed freely. People compared techniques, helped one another, and celebrated small victories as projects slowly took shape. Kyle and I drifted from project to project, offering guidance, demonstrating techniques, and occasionally untangling creative interpretations of braiding.

As darkness settled in, tenders gradually peeled away from the small parking lot that had formed behind Sentindo Bem. Kyle and I made our final rounds of the fleet before taking Otis ashore one last time for his evening walk.

Tomorrow starts early. Tomorrow we cross Cape Caution.

Officially, the Southeast Alaska Flotilla has completed its first day together. If today was any indication, we’re excited to see what the next twenty days will bring as we make our way toward Petersburg, Alaska.

Over and Out,
Lagoon explorer, rope wrangler, Cape Caution dreamer.
-Sentindo Bem

Day 02, May 31st; Allison Harbour To Pruth Bay

Twilight lit the bay so brightly one might have thought the sun was already up.

With a planned departure of 0600, we were awake and sipping coffee just before 0500. Throughout the night—and before even climbing out of bed—we had been checking the weather at West Sea Otter. The forecast remained favorable. We were looking clear for takeoff.

While the morning window was beautiful, there was wind expected later that afternoon. When planning a route like this, there are many factors to consider. Slack water, wind, waves, tidal flow, and the sea conditions that have passed the couple days before, all of these play a role.

When crossing Queen Charlotte Sound, it isn’t only Cape Caution that demands our attention. Two major river systems empty into these waters, creating a playground of logs and debris while contributing to turbulent conditions when tides and currents oppose one another. Add building winds to the equation, and things become far more complicated. Lucky for us, the stars seemed to align.

As we lifted anchor, the sun rose into a beautiful bright sunrise over the trees—a quiet omen for the day ahead.

Leaving Allison Harbour, I took advantage of the calm conditions and threaded Sentindo Bem through the Eliza Islands and Emily Group. The route positioned us nicely to pass Mayor Island with the swell on our bow. It made for an easy ride, especially considering the course changes that would come later in the day.

The hours drifted by. The swell was long, slow, and gentle.

It felt as though every boater on the coast had been waiting for this exact moment. Boats emerged from anchorages and hiding holes all along the coastal inlets. Three vessels paraded out of Skull Cove. Several more appeared from Miles Inlet. We had shared Allison Harbour with four other cruising boats the night before.

Sunday was proving to be the day. The weather window had arrived, and everyone was ready to take advantage of it.

Onward we went—some of us slow and steady, others quick and eager. Kaiora and Stimpy put their speed to good use, racing ahead. Kaiora pulling away towards Dawson’s Landing for fuel before continuing on.

By the time we tucked behind Calvert Island and entered Fitz Hugh Sound, the forecast winds had begun to build. While we were still miles from our destination, there is a particular feeling of relief that comes with clearing the open Pacific and slipping back inside.

 

One by one, we arrived in Pruth Bay and settled into our anchorages for the evening. As each anchor found the bottom, you could almost hear the collective sigh of relief from every skipper.

We did it. We made the crossing. One of the biggest milestones of the trip now sat behind us.

Ahead lay the true Inside Passage: hot springs, abandoned settlements, remote communities, rich history, and endless opportunities for discovery.

At Pruth Bay, I had arranged a special tour for the group. Near the dock sits a welcome centre maintained by the Hakai Institute. Inside are displays describing the research taking place, along with a fascinating timeline of Calvert Island’s history—one built not on speculation, but on scientific evidence gathered over decades of study.

After the tour, many of us wandered the beaches and trails surrounding the bay. More than ten miles of public trails wind through the island, offering plenty of opportunities to stretch our legs after a day on the water.

We all gathered aboard Sentindo Bem for an evening Captains Hour.  Tomorrow promises a straightforward run as we continue north. Gradually, the anchorage settled. The wind eased. Dinghies disappeared back to their boats.

After a long day, the sleepy, blissful anchorage felt like a gift.

Over and Out,
Weather watcher, milestone marker, northbound dreamer
-Sentindo Bem

Day 03, June 1st; Pruth Bay to Codville Lagoon

Sleep, recovery, and rest.

It was a slow morning for the flotillians in the bay. Everyone seemed to be recharging from the long day before. Departure wasn’t until just after 1000, allowing plenty of time for morning walks along the beach, which stretched far and wide thanks to the 0830 low tide.

Slowly, we all meandered out. Idyll Time our fearless slow-boat speedsters set the dominoes in motion, anchors lifting one by one across the anchorage.

Departing Pruth Bay, we turned north toward Hakai Pass. Along the way, we passed one of the archaeological sites on Calvert Island—a dig site that has provided remarkable insight and some truly exciting discoveries about the area’s history.

The day’s run was easy and straightforward. We fought about half a knot of current in Fitz Hugh Sound, which isn’t much considering the size of the body of water. With only 27 miles to Codville Lagoon, most of us arrived shortly before 1400.

The entrance to Codville feels like a gateway into another world. At only about 75 yards wide, it is almost overwhelming how large the lagoon stretches once you’re inside. A lone prawning vessel was already in the bay, setting pots and enjoying the same beautiful conditions.

Making our way toward the eastern corner, we meandered around looking for suitable anchorages. The lagoon was already playing host to four sailboats, and I’m sure the arrival of our fleet felt a bit like a stampede. One by one, everyone found a spot to drop anchor and call home for the night.

The rest of the afternoon was easy, sunny, and lighthearted.

Stimpy launched the kayaks. Paragon finally pulled out their tender outboard—yes, they had been rowing everywhere. The crew aboard Zephyr went swimming. As for us, the traveling barbershop opened for business and I gave Kyle a haircut.

The bay buzzed with activity as everyone made the most of the afternoon sunshine.

As evening settled in, the barbecues came out. Floating through the anchorage, I could smell dinners cooking aboard boats in every direction.

Tonight’s Captain’s Hour looked a little different.

Instead of everyone climbing aboard Sentindo Bem, we held a “drive-in” style meeting from our tenders. We discussed the following day’s route as usual, but tonight brought something different.

Tomorrow’s forecast called for temperatures near 80°F, and our original destination included 108°F hot springs. As relaxing as that normally sounds, nobody was enthusiastic about soaking in hot water only to step back out into stifling air. So, as a group, we adjusted the plan. Somehow, we managed to find an alternative that worked for everyone.

Eventually, the tenders departed. Some crews continued their quest for dinner, while others took evening rides around the bay. It was an easy night.

Slowly, we were all settling into the rhythm of this slow, steady, and exciting journey to Alaska.

Over and Out,
Shell collector, floating barber, slow traveler
–Sentindo Bem

Day 04, June 2nd; Codville Lagoon to Ocean Falls / Codville Lagoon

We awoke to glassy water, everything so still it was hard to believe we were suspended out here—delicately balanced in the wild, miles from resources, civilization, and the hustle and bustle of everyday life.

What was originally supposed to be a travel day to Eucott Bay, home to the 108°F natural hot springs, we took a different turn. The forecast called for temperatures near 80°F—bone-warming, soul-defrosting sunshine. Needless to say, soaking in hot springs didn’t sound overly appealing.

So, as a group, we pivoted. The night before, it had been decided that we would split up. Half the flotilla would continue on to Ocean Falls and spend two nights on the dock. The other half would remain in Codville Lagoon for another day, soaking up the sunshine and enjoying one more night in this beautiful anchorage.

As 0900 rolled around, Paragon, Stimpy, and Cool Change idled over in their tenders. Another drive-in Captain’s Hour was held, and slices of lemon poppyseed loaf were handed out—baked by yours truly, of course.

We discussed the route to Ocean Falls. “Leave the lagoon, turn north, and go straight. You’ll run right into it.” We reviewed moorage options, route details, current considerations, and my one strict instruction: let us know when you arrive. For safety and companionship, the three boats planned to travel together.

Meanwhile, Zephyr, Idyll Time, Kaiora, and Sentindo Bem chose to stay behind and enjoy the warm waters, quiet beauty, and serenity of Codville Lagoon.

The adventurers departed shortly after 1000. With Cool Change leading the way, anchors came up and the small fleet disappeared through the narrow entrance.

Their absence was felt almost immediately. The laughter from Stimpy, the banter from Paragon, and the steady positivity of Cool Change left a noticeable quiet behind. The flotilla simply wasn’t quite the same without them.

Back in the lagoon, life settled into a slower pace. The crew of Zephyr was swimming before 1000. Kaiora enjoyed coffee on the bow. Idyll Time worked away in the pilothouse. Kyle and I finished a few lingering projects before packing up snacks, lunch, books, and heading for the lake.

The sun was warm. The skies were clear. Meanwhile, photos began arriving from Ocean Falls: ice cream cones, smiling group photos, and adventures through the old company town.

As evening approached, we gathered once more for a brief drive-in Captain’s Hour. Short and sweet, we reviewed our own plans for the following day, when we would travel to Ocean Falls and reunite with the rest of our wandering crew.

It was a full day.

The heartbeat of the Inside Passage pulsed through all of us, urging us forward while reminding us to slow down. We found ourselves moving to the rhythm of the coast, listening carefully to what it had to offer.

And on this day, it offered sunshine, still water, and permission to stay awhile.

Fair Winds,
Lemon loaf baker, lagoon dweller, slow traveler
–Sentindo Bem

Day 05, June 3rd; Codville Lagoon to Ocean Falls

The morning was almost early, at least compared to the last couple of days. The plan was to have anchors up by 0800 and make our way to Ocean Falls. While we were perfectly happy in Codville Lagoon, there was much to do, see, and experience ahead of us. Stay too long in one place, and it becomes easy to imagine never leaving.

Our anchor came up at 0745, and we slowly made our way out of the Lagoon. Inching along, we found the exit, with Idyll Time and Zephyr close behind.

The sky wore that peculiar shade of white-gray—not quite sunny, yet bright enough to give the illusion of sunshine. It was a subtle reminder that conditions could shift at any moment. Gone were the clear blue skies and 80°F sunshine we had enjoyed the day before.

The run to Ocean Falls was straightforward, a touch windy, and pleasantly easy. It was that deceptive kind of easy that comes with a route leading to a destination you simply cannot miss, and only one turn to get there.

Ocean Falls is exactly that kind of destination.

With a unique and fascinating history, Ocean Falls became the site of a pulp and paper mill in 1906. At its peak, it was a company town housing nearly 4,000 people. Today, fewer than 20 residents call it home year-round.

As you approach, the sheer size of the dam is astonishing. The hotel, once the centerpiece of town life, now looks like something out of a movie set. For a ghost town, the dock is surprisingly generous and reliable, offering fresh water, power, and sturdy bull rails to tie to. Ocean Falls is a welcome reprieve for boaters traveling this stretch of coast.

Docking conditions were a bit windy, so everyone had to be intentional with their approach as the breeze tried to push boats away from the dock. All that practice we’ve talked about throughout the flotilla—this is where it pays off.

Knowing how your boat maneuvers and handles is essential when docking in adverse conditions. Equally important is knowing when to take a lap, collect yourself, and try again.

When a captain misses an approach, frustration can creep in quickly. The reality is that most people don’t improve after repeated attempts while emotions are escalating. Sometimes the best thing you can do is back away, reset, and come back with a clear head. To me, that’s one of the key differences between simply operating a boat and truly captaining a vessel.

As we walked through town, the sound of water cascading over the dam and pounding against the rocks provided a constant backdrop to this unique place.

When we arrived, our Ocean Falls adventurers were there to greet us. The rest of us settled in, plugged into shore power, and prepared to explore. Despite its small population, Ocean Falls still has plenty to discover.

There were a couple of other boats tied to the dock when we arrived. Naturally, we invited them to join our potluck that evening.

One of my favorite things about boating is the people you meet along the way. If you happen to cross paths with us, don’t be surprised if I try to recruit you into the flotilla—even if it’s only for a night.

Eventually, the time came to gather. A covered pavilion with picnic tables and Edison lights provided the perfect place to come together. Dinner turned into Captain’s Hour, which turned into the Daily Brief. We talked weather and, more importantly, how to interpret it.

Modern forecasting tools are incredible resources, but they don’t always tell the whole story. Windy doesn’t fully account for the land masses that block wind, nor does it capture the funneling effects that can occur in these long channels and valleys. The forecast is a tool. Learning how the landscape influences the reality of what is predicted is where experience begins to matter.

After the meeting, we all returned to our saltwater sanctuaries, driven inside a little sooner than expected by the bugs.

Tomorrow brings another day, more miles, and a few more inches across the chart.

Over and Out
Ghost-town wanderer, weather watcher, saltwater dweller
–Sentindo Bem

 

Day 06, June 4th; Ocean Falls  to Shearwater

The morning was early and quiet, with fog cascading down the mountainsides. There was something a little eerie about it.

While today’s run was only 22 nautical miles to Shearwater through Gunboat Passage, there was a high probability of wind building in Fitz Hugh Sound. By departing early, we could get ahead of the weather, hit slack water at Gunboat Passage, and inevitably travel with the rain instead of against the wind.

Slowly, we gathered to leave the dock, with Sentindo Bem departing around 0800. The slower boats slipped away just ahead of us, while the faster boats lingered slightly behind. It was one of those mornings that was wet and perfectly on schedule. The wind had not yet begun to build, making for an easy run.

From Gunboat Passage, it is another seven miles to Shearwater. We donned our rain gear and prepared for what promised to be a wet afternoon.

Sentindo Bem arrived first and helped bring the rest of the fleet onto the dock. Paragon, Zephyr, Cool Change, and Stimpy followed in. Idyll Time and Kaiora had arrived earlier and were already settled in. Wet, gusty, and cold, everyone eventually found their place on the dock.

As conditions deteriorated, other boats shuffled around to create space for additional cruisers seeking refuge from the weather. It is one of the things I love about boating communities. There is always room made for one more boat when, especially conditions warrant it.

Reservations were secured at the restaurant. Laundry was started, showers were taken, groceries were loaded aboard, even a few boat projects managed to make an appearance. The rain eased just long enough for walks through the boatyard and down the docks before returning once again. 

One of my favorite things about places like Shearwater is the people you meet. Most of the recreational boaters are heading north for the season, and because the cruising community is relatively small, there is a good chance we will run into many of them again. If we haven’t already been leapfrogging one another up the coast, we likely will before summer is over.

Big boats. Little boats. Fast boats. Slow boats. So many different makes, models, and vintages. Everyone is proud of their floating saltwater bathhouse—and they should be. Boat tours are one of my favorite dockside activities. I love seeing the systems people choose, how they organize their spaces, what they consider essential, and what they happily live without. Every boat tells a story about its owners.

Eventually, dinner time arrived, and we gathered together. We found our table, the laughter poured out, and conversation filled the evening like an all-you-can-eat buffet.

The restaurant was packed, so afterward we meandered back to Sentindo Bem for Captain’s Hour. Tomorrow presents an important decision. Do we take the shorter, more exposed route to Clothes Bay, or the longer, more protected route through Reid Passage?

With Reid Passage comes another consideration: currents. To transit safely and comfortably, we want to hit slack water at Perceval Narrows. So we discussed weather, routes, currents, and the days ahead.

The next 300 miles will be some of the most remote of the entire trip, offering a glimpse of the wilderness that awaits us in Alaska. The adventure is only just beginning.

Over and Out
Dock walker, route planner, saltwater storyteller
-Sentindo Bem

Day 07, June 5th; Shearwater to Clothes Bay

Not everyone had experienced their share of Murphy yet on this trip. Naturally, good old Murphy decided it was time to make an appearance. The plan for the day was simple: depart the dock at 0815 and catch slack water at Perceval Narrows.

Everyone prepared for departure. Cool Change was the first off the dock. Moments later, we noticed the unmistakable “oh no” look on the crew of Zephyr‘s faces as they struggled with their shore power cord.

Coming over to investigate, we quickly realized what was the cause for the face. The shore cord had become wedged between two large sections of the floating concrete dock. Instantly, we went from flotilla leaders to engineers.

Want to watch a community come together? Want to see strangers helping strangers? Have a problem happen on the main dock where everyone can see others gather. When people start to gather, others start to investigate. People were appearing from every direction offering assistance. Larger pry bars. Blocks for wedging. Fresh ideas. Every card was laid on the table.

We were trying everything anyone could think of. Two boats pulled on opposite dock sections to widen the gap. Halyards from a sailboat were put into service. Every available person stood on opposite sides of the float trying to manipulate the dock. The cord moved maybe three inches.

My favorite attempt? Using the dinghy to create a wake alongside the dock and recreate the wave action we’d experienced the night before. I think I enjoyed that attempt a little too much. 

Although, another three inches were gained. Success. Only three feet left to go. As the clock continued ticking, we slowly began asking ourselves a very important question: How exactly were we going to solve this?

Nearly an hour into the project, someone finally pointed out the odd curve in the floating dock, sparking a new idea.

Meanwhile, a kind local had been assisting with his 12-foot, center console aluminum workboat. We were co-creating wake and movement alongside the float. He repositioned to the south side and gently pushed against the dock, reversing the curve ever so slightly.

Pull. Pull. Pull. Suddenly, the cord came free. Pry bars clattered to the dock as everyone collectively celebrated the victory.

Lesson learned: Don’t put shore power cords into the cracks between moving docks. Even if you’re trying to prevent people from tripping. “Let the people trip” quickly became the unofficial motto of the day. By then, it was official. We had missed slack water at Perceval Narrows.

Fortunately, that wasn’t a deal breaker. The currents themselves would not create dangerous turbulence, but they would oppose the wind, resulting in steeper and choppier seas. It was simply another factor to consider.

Finally departing Shearwater, we headed northwest past Bella Bella, around Dryad Point, and into Seaforth Channel. Turning west, we approached Harmston Island and the entrance to Reid Passage. It was here that we made a decision. Rather than continue through Reid Passage, we opted for the outside route. The change would help us recover the hour we’d lost and avoid the opposing wind and current conditions we expected in Oscar Channel.

Continuing west, we followed the ferry route, keeping Ivory Island, Cross Point, and Salal Island to starboard. The exposed section treated us kindly. A sleepy four- to six-foot swell rolled beneath us at a twelve-second interval. Long, predictable, and comfortable.

As we turned north into Milbanke Sound, the wind began to build. At times, the incoming tide gave us nearly two knots of additional speed. From there, the remainder of the passage was straightforward.

We continued through Finlayson Channel before turning west into Klemtu Passage. Clothes Bay would be home for the night, offering excellent protection along with convenient access to fuel and groceries before our departure the following morning.

Needless to say, it had been a full day. By the time Captain’s Hour rolled around, everyone was brimming with conversation. The discussion focused on route planning and decision making. Why did we change the route? What information were we using? How do you know when it’s time to adapt the plan? 

Those conversations are some of my favorite parts of the flotilla. They bring us together not only physically, but through a shared understanding of the decisions that move us safely north.

One route, One goal; Alaska.

Over and Out
Engineer for a day, route adjuster, Alaska bound.
–Sentindo Bem

Day 08, June 6th; Clothes Bay to Khutze Inlet

One of the big topics we discuss during the flotilla is departure time. What determines when we leave? The answer can be a myriad of things, with currents often being one of the biggest factors. Sometimes it’s arriving at the mouth of a bay at a certain time. Other times it’s hitting slack water at a narrow passage along the way. It is something we discuss often during Captain’s Hour.

Today, our departure was planned around the current at Hiekish Narrows. That left Sentindo Bem anchors up and underway promptly at 1015. Zephyr led the pack with a 0930 departure. Kaiora, Paragon, Stimpy, and Cool Change followed shortly after. Idyll Time—also known as Sleepy Time this morning—brought up the rear not long afterward.

As we departed Clothes Bay, smelling faintly of crisp bacon and strong coffee, we passed the small community of Klemtu. Idyllic and welcoming, Klemtu offers fuel, groceries, and tours of its Big House. With a new grocery store scheduled to open later this month, I’m looking forward to stopping by on our way south to see it for myself.

From Klemtu, we passed between Wedge Point and Reef Point, spilling out into Finlayson Channel. It is about 12 nautical miles to Hiekish Narrows, and we arrived exactly at our planned slack water.

Hiekish Narrows leads into Graham Reach, carrying us past the lone chimney of Swanson Bay—the site of British Columbia’s first pulp mill town. Hundreds of people once lived here, raised families here, and believed they were building a permanent future. Today, all that remains is a chimney rising from the forest.

Slowly, we continued north. We are officially in fjord country now. Hills rise into mountains. Granite cliffs plunge into the sea. The scale of the landscape grows larger around us with every passing mile, offering a glimpse into the richness and wildness of this coast.

By 1400, we wandered into Khutze Inlet. Some flotillians explored farther toward the head of the inlet, where the bay transitions into a river estuary. Eyes were peeled for bears, eagles, and other wildlife. We chose to anchor near Green Spit, near the entrance of the inlet.

Not long after arriving, we spotted a bear along the shoreline, wandering, feeding, and entirely unconcerned with our presence.

Tonight, Idyll Time hosted the potluck. Slowly, everyone made their way over around 1800, arms full of goods. Dips, layered cheese trays, smoked fish, pizza, and countless other creations found their way to the table.

As evening settled toward night, conversation shifted naturally into Captain’s Hour. We discussed the next two days ahead. Grenville Channel. Dixon Entrance. Weather forecasts. Alternate plans. Possibilities. The farther north we travel, the more attention weather demands.

Before dusk fully settled around the anchorage, we bid one another goodnight. Day 09 begins early, and somehow it was already late. One by one, tenders departed, carrying us back to our nomadic cabins for the evening.

Over and Out
Current watcher, bear spotter, fjord wanderer.
-Sentindo Bem

Day 09, June 7th; Khutze Inlet to Lowe Inlet

Lowe Inlet was wet, yet bright beneath a low ceiling of fog hanging over the mouth of the bay. 0600 comes far too early after a potluck that runs late into the evening. Rain had started sometime during the night and showed no signs of letting up anytime soon.

Motors fired to life. Anchors rose from the depths of the deep blue. One by one, we set off north through Graham Reach. The mountains seemed cut off halfway up their slopes. Thick pillows of fog trapped each of us inside our own white box, often limiting visibility to only a few hundred yards beyond the bow.

Slowly, we found our way into Wright Sound, home to many humpback whales. Here, the giants moved lazily through the water, surfacing and disappearing into the mist. Wright Sound eventually delivered us to what we affectionately call “The Ditch”—Grenville Channel.

It feels exactly like its nickname suggests: a long, deep trench carved through the mountains. Even though the peaks remained hidden by clouds, we could still feel the scale of the valley surrounding us.

About a quarter of the way up Grenville Channel lies Lowe Inlet, a popular stopping point for cruisers. Currents often dictate timing through this area, making it a convenient place to pause and wait when needed.

We arrived at our home for the night shortly after noon. As the anchors settled, so did we. The rain encouraged everyone back into their own saltwater sanctuaries. Warm, dry, and entertained, flotillians disappeared into books, knitting projects, painting, naps, and, of course, boat projects.

The afternoon slipped quietly by. No bears. No birds. Just the subtle current from the river feeding the bay and the steady rhythm of rain on deck.

As early as the day had begun, it seemed to end. There would be no Captain’s Hour tonight. Tomorrow’s plan had already been discussed, and sometimes we simply need a day like this—a day to be.

A day to rest. A day to read. A day to nap. A day to eat. Tomorrow promises sunshine and more miles north. Tonight, Lowe Inlet offered us something equally valuable. Stillness.

Over and Out
Fog watcher, nap advocate, sanctuary dweller.
-Sentindo Bem

Day 09, June 7th; Khutze Inlet to Lowe Inlet

Lowe Inlet was wet, yet bright beneath a low ceiling of fog hanging over the mouth of the bay. 0600 comes far too early after a potluck that runs late into the evening. Rain had started sometime during the night and showed no signs of letting up anytime soon.

Motors fired to life. Anchors rose from the depths of the deep blue. One by one, we set off north through Graham Reach. The mountains seemed cut off halfway up their slopes. Thick pillows of fog trapped each of us inside our own white box, often limiting visibility to only a few hundred yards beyond the bow.

Slowly, we found our way into Wright Sound, home to many humpback whales. Here, the giants moved lazily through the water, surfacing and disappearing into the mist. Wright Sound eventually delivered us to what we affectionately call “The Ditch”—Grenville Channel.

It feels exactly like its nickname suggests: a long, deep trench carved through the mountains. Even though the peaks remained hidden by clouds, we could still feel the scale of the valley surrounding us.

About a quarter of the way up Grenville Channel lies Lowe Inlet, a popular stopping point for cruisers. Currents often dictate timing through this area, making it a convenient place to pause and wait when needed.

We arrived at our home for the night shortly after noon. As the anchors settled, so did we. The rain encouraged everyone back into their own saltwater sanctuaries. Warm, dry, and entertained, flotillians disappeared into books, knitting projects, painting, naps, and, of course, boat projects.

The afternoon slipped quietly by. No bears. No birds. Just the subtle current from the river feeding the bay and the steady rhythm of rain on deck.

As early as the day had begun, it seemed to end. There would be no Captain’s Hour tonight. Tomorrow’s plan had already been discussed, and sometimes we simply need a day like this—a day to be.

A day to rest. A day to read. A day to nap. A day to eat. Tomorrow promises sunshine and more miles north. Tonight, Lowe Inlet offered us something equally valuable. Stillness.

Over and Out
Fog watcher, nap advocate, sanctuary dweller.
-Sentindo Bem

Day 10, June 8th; Lowe Inlet to Baker Inlet

The morning brought an end to the rain. Slowly, the gray clouds began to part, revealing patches of blue sky. 

Our departure today was dictated by our arrival at Baker Inlet. Baker is a long inlet, stretching nearly four miles inland and protected by Watts Narrows. Anytime a place has “Narrows” or “Rapids” in its name, it is a good rule of thumb to check for current predictions. In our case, Watts Narrows can produce turbulent waters, and it is recommended to transit near slack water.

For us, today, that would be 1356. Knowing this, we also had Grenville Channel to contend with. Fortunately, the timing lined up beautifully. We could ride the flood current into Grenville further, then ride the ebb out the other side, and arrive at Watts Narrows right at the slack we needed. The timing doesn’t always work out this well. When it does, it feels good, like really good.

As the morning progressed, the rain drifted away and the blue skies finally arrived. For the first time in days, we could see the mountain peaks surrounding us. At last, we were able to truly take in the grandeur of Grenville Channel.

Snow still clung to many of the summits, feeding countless waterfalls that tumbled down the cliffs and into the water below. The day brought a few whale sightings, even more log sightings, and a large ferry that passed by and waved us along our way.

Our run through Grenville Channel covered roughly 21 nautical miles, bringing us to more than three-quarters of the way through its length. Once the fleet gathered outside Watts Narrows, Sentindo Bem led the way through.

The transit was slow, winding, and narrow. One by one, we meandered through the passage and emerged into the broad waters beyond. Watts Narrows opened into the wide, deep reaches of Baker Inlet.

From there, it was another three miles to the head of the inlet and our anchorage for the night. As anchors settled and everyone found their place, the welcoming committee arrived. An eagle and a black bear.

The sunshine, warmth, and wildlife brought everyone outside. Dinghies zipped around the bay. Paddleboards appeared. People wandered, explored, and soaked in what is becoming a rare gift of a warm afternoon.

Eventually, the bear continued on its way, and the bay slowly settled as afternoon gave way to evening. Tonight, Zephyr hosted the potluck. One by one, dishes appeared on the table. Mac and cheese, baked ziti, chicken, rice, puff pastry appetizers, carrot-raisin salad, green salad, vegetable stir fry, and more.

We were thoroughly spoiled. The conversations were lively and effortless. Tours of Zephyr were offered, and before long we were crawling all over her like a swarm of curious ants.

As the evening slowed, Captain’s Hour began. The conversation turned once again toward Dixon Entrance. Who had been watching the weather? What was it doing now? Were we still looking good for our planned crossing? The answer, as it often is with weather, was that it seemed to change every few hours.

 

As Captain’s Hour came to a close, the evening did as well. One by one, we cast off from Zephyr and floated home. 

Tomorrow brings Prince Rupert. The last major stop before Alaska begins to feel very real.

Over and Out
Current timer, bear spotter, Dixon watcher.
— Sentindo Bem

 

 

 

Day 11, June 9th; Baker inlet to Prince Rupert

Departing Baker Inlet came in the shadow of an early morning. Currents were in our favor, with slack water at Watts Narrows occurring at 0848. This put us onto an ebb current in Grenville Channel, allowing us to ride the ebb the rest of the way out of the “Ditch.”

The morning started off easy, mild, and calm. Prince Rupert is home to one of the five largest shipping ports on the West Coast, meaning the shipping channel and no-wake zone begin nearly ten miles before reaching town.

Unfortunately for one of our participants, Cool Change, this was exactly where they experienced a coupling malfunction. There are certainly better places to have a breakdown.

Preparedness travels with us as best it can, and fortunately we were only a couple of miles ahead. We immediately turned around and began preparing a tow rig. A large bridle, 150 feet of tow line, and a secondary bridle were rigged and ready within minutes.

Life jackets went on. We reviewed our plan. Calm, cool, and collected, we discussed wind direction, line handling, the handoff procedure, and how we would secure Cool Change once we reached Prince Rupert.

Circling around Cool Change to align our heading, I positioned our stern just ahead of their bow, giving Kyle the perfect angle to toss the tow bridle. Instructions were repeated. The lines were secured. Slowly, I brought Sentindo Bem forward, allowing the tow line to ease out cleanly behind us.

Once I received the call, “All set, initiate tow,” I applied tension to the line. Just like that, Cool Change was underway once again.

What should have been a thirty-minute run became nearly three hours of pushing current and towing. Eventually, we arrived. Of course, getting there was only half the battle.

We still needed to get Cool Change safely to the dock, and we wanted to take advantage of the fuel dock while we were there. We dropped the tow. I repositioned Sentindo Bem to help create a break from passing wakes while Kyle launched the dinghy.

Within minutes, Kyle was alongside Cool Change, guiding them toward their slip. All hands were on deck waiting to receive lines and help bring them safely alongside.

Meanwhile, I stayed aboard Sentindo Bem, preparing lines and fenders for the fuel dock. Kyle was back within twenty minutes, and I was already waiting my turn for fuel.

The rest of the day slipped away quickly. Exhaustion settled over the evening like a haze.

We walked Otis and joined the group for dinner at Breakers Pub, a lively place with exceptional food. There was no Captain’s Hour that night.

Tomorrow already held a long list of activities: laundry, grocery shopping, clothing runs, boat projects, and all the other tasks that come with preparing a fleet for Alaska. As the evening wound down, our minds were already drifting north.

We could almost taste the cinnamon buns at Myers Chuck, see the cruise ships in Tongass Narrows outside Ketchikan, and hear the whales bubble-feeding off Petersburg.

Alaska didn’t feel very far away anymore.

Over and Out
Tow boat operator, current fighter, northbound traveler
— Sentindo Bem

Day 12, June 10th; Prince Rupert

Today was a day of rest. A day to sleep, drink coffee, walk dogs, and shop.

Boat projects are never-ending on a trip that spans more than 1,000 nautical miles. The gremlins never stop, and neither does the work. Fortunately, Prince Rupert is a great place to prepare for the next leg of the journey, with marine stores, grocery stores, a butcher shop, and plenty of other local businesses ready to support passing cruisers.

The day slipped away quickly and eventually gave way to dinner. Tonight, we gathered at Opa Sushi, a small, quaint restaurant just off the main drag. We laughed, shared stories, and talked about Alaska.

We were so close to our shared goal that the excitement was impossible to ignore. Dinner carried us into the evening, and Captain’s Hour soon followed.

Tonight’s discussion centered on the first leg of our Dixon Entrance crossing. We have been watching the weather closely for the last week, and the forecast was finally shaping up to deliver a couple of beautiful crossing days.

The conversation was hopeful, cautious, and excited all at once. Eventually, the evening came to an end, and we each returned to our own routines. Boat projects resumed. Dogs were walked. Final loads of laundry spun away in the background.

Tomorrow we leave Prince Rupert. We are eighty-eight miles from Alaska. Two nights away & just one more anchorage.

Over and Out
Provision shopper, Dixon watcher, Alaska bound
— Sentindo Bem

Day 12, June 10th; Prince Rupert

Today was a day of rest. A day to sleep, drink coffee, walk dogs, and shop.

Boat projects are never-ending on a trip that spans more than 1,000 nautical miles. The gremlins never stop, and neither does the work. Fortunately, Prince Rupert is a great place to prepare for the next leg of the journey, with marine stores, grocery stores, a butcher shop, and plenty of other local businesses ready to support passing cruisers.

The day slipped away quickly and eventually gave way to dinner. Tonight, we gathered at Opa Sushi, a small, quaint restaurant just off the main drag. We laughed, shared stories, and talked about Alaska.

We were so close to our shared goal that the excitement was impossible to ignore. Dinner carried us into the evening, and Captain’s Hour soon followed.

Tonight’s discussion centered on the first leg of our Dixon Entrance crossing. We have been watching the weather closely for the last week, and the forecast was finally shaping up to deliver a couple of beautiful crossing days.

The conversation was hopeful, cautious, and excited all at once. Eventually, the evening came to an end, and we each returned to our own routines. Boat projects resumed. Dogs were walked. Final loads of laundry spun away in the background.

Tomorrow we leave Prince Rupert. We are eighty-eight miles from Alaska. Two nights away and just one more anchorage.

Over and Out
Provision shopper, Dixon watcher, Alaska bound
— Sentindo Bem

Day 13, June 11th; Prince Rupert to Brundige Inlet

Leaving Prince Rupert is always a little bittersweet.

The town is a reprieve after being out of touch for so many days. A safe harbor for our floating homes and a sanctuary for our souls. The morning was filled with coffee, last loads of laundry, ice runs, and stowing away projects.

Prince Rupert is a destination out of a story book. Easy to fall into, and never leave. The locals wave at you walking down the street, strangers offer strangers rides with their large loads of groceries and the fog hangs on the hill tops as they roll across the backdrop of this not so sleepy town. 

Idyll Time was first off the dock, followed shortly by Zephyr.

This morning, we transited Venn Passage, a narrow and winding route that takes us out the “back door” of Prince Rupert Harbour and drops us into Chatham Sound. The shortcut saves more than ten nautical miles compared to the long way around—a trade well worth the no-wake zone.

From Chatham Sound, it is a short hop across to Dundas Island. The weather couldn’t decide what it wanted. We had sun, then rain, and even both at times. The water was calm, like a bathtub waiting to be dove into. Brundige Inlet is on the North East corner of Dundas Island, and is where we found our anchorage for the night.

Brundige is a large bay with shallow shelves and plenty of room to anchor. It made for a comfortable stop before tomorrow’s crossing.  The rain finally moved on, allowing the sun to make an appearance. Dinghies buzzed around the bay while kayaks and paddleboards emerged to take advantage of the beautiful evening.

Tonight, we gathered for a potluck to kick off our Dixon Entrance crossing. Idyll Time hosted, and one by one we meandered over. Slowly, the food table aboard Idyll Time filled. Pulled pork, corn casserole, fresh crab, thai salad & so much more.

We ate, talked, laughed, and watched the flotilla magic continue to grow as we prepared for our second gateway into Alaska. Before the evening got away from us, we had a special occasion to celebrate. It was Captain Kyle’s birthday. Cake was brought out, songs were sung and a candle was lit. 

There is always something & this time I had forgotten the birthday candles. Thankfully, Idyll Time came to the rescue with a tabletop candle instead. A large wooden wick candle scented with sea salt was ceremoniously held beside the cake while Kyle attempted to blow it out.

Laughter erupted, it was, admittedly, much harder to extinguish than a normal birthday candle. While everyone enjoyed angel food cake and strawberries, we transitioned into Captain’s Hour. The route appeared on the large screen and daily briefs were handed out. Tonight, we put all of our skills to the test.

We reviewed currents for multiple locations, compared offshore Pacific weather to the conditions we expected across Dixon Entrance, and discussed one of the most important topics of all: our resources. Which current resources can be trusted? Who provides the cleanest data? How do we verify the information we’re seeing?

Many of the commonly used apps were showing conflicting or inaccurate information. Meanwhile, our trusted Ports and Passes tide and current tables continued to prove their value.

The real challenge wasn’t finding information. It is learning how to interpret it, cross-reference it, and build a complete picture of what tomorrow would bring. Slowly, the headaches subsided, questions were answered & confidence grew.

The resources began to make more sense, and everyone walked away with a deeper understanding of how to use them. Tomorrow comes early & tomorrow is a big day.

Tomorrow, we reach Alaska.

Over and Out
Birthday Celebrator, Resource Checker, Northbound Traveler
— Sentindo Bem

Day 14, June 12th; Brundige Inlet to Ketchikan, AK

The departure from Brundige Inlet came early, with a plan for anchors up by 0630 local time. Awake with the sun, Idyll Time and Zephyr got a head start on the day’s run. The sun continued its rise as we slipped out of the bay and pointed north. Today is a big day, today we enter Alaska.

That means customs to clear, a time change to remember, and many miles to celebrate. For customs, we use the ROAM app to clear digitally into the United States. While there is always a chance of being asked to report to a customs dock in person, we have generally had good luck using the app for previous crossings.

Slowly, Dundas Island faded behind us. The waves were a little sloppy as we exposed ourselves to Dixon Entrance, giving us a slightly dramatic start to the day. Before long, however, the miles slipped by and the water began to settle. We saw roughly three-foot seas with an eight- to ten-second period. I’d call that a good day for crossing Dixon.

The conditions continued to improve as we passed Cape Fox and the sun climbed higher into the sky. Before noon, we officially entered U.S. waters.

Passing Duke Island, we turned slightly northwest and threaded our way through Danger Passage, a short, winding section between Cat Island and Mary Island. Taking this route allowed us to ride the current a little longer before turning north again.

Once clear of the passage, we adjusted our course through Felice Strait and continued into Revillagigedo Channel. The boat traffic gradually began to increase. Small fishing boats buzzed around us like flies, a clear sign that we were approaching civilization once again.

Entering Tongass Narrows, the increase in traffic became impossible to ignore. Ferries, fishing vessels, floatplanes, and pleasure craft all shared the waterway leading into Ketchikan.

Soon, the busy waterfront of “Alaska’s First City” came into view. Unlike many days on this trip, it was warm. Dressed like locals, we arrived wearing shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops. Fishermen waved as we passed, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the weather encouraged us to be outside rather than seek shelter from it. This balmy 60°F felt more like 80°F compared to the wet, overcast conditions we’d been traveling through. One by one, the rest of the fleet arrived.

Roll call was completed, and everyone dispersed to enjoy town in their own way. Some wandered through Ketchikan’s shops and boardwalks. Others stayed near the marina, taking advantage of the facilities and sunshine. Dinner found us scattered throughout town. Some gathered at the Alaska Fish House, while others ventured to restaurants farther afield.

As the evening carried on, the sun continued to shine, warming our souls and drying out our boats. Eventually, we came together once again aboard Sentindo Bem for our first Captain’s Hour in Alaska. The excitement was impossible to hide. We weren’t at our final destination yet. There were still miles to travel and adventures ahead but we were in Alaska and that was the whole point.

Over and Out
Current Rider, Dixon Crosser, Customs Clearer
— Sentindo Bem

Latest Report

Day 15, June 13th; Ketchikan to Meyers Chuck

Leaving Ketchikan feels like passing through the final gate, yet somehow also like a new beginning.

The day we arrived, there were two cruise ships in the main port, one in the north berth, and another departing as we entered town. During peak season, Ketchikan opens itself daily to a flood of visitors searching for souvenirs, adventures, and the perfect magnet to bring home.

Then, almost as quickly as they arrive, they leave. By 1730, the streets empty. The bustle fades away, leaving the town feeling surprisingly quiet—almost eerie.

For us, however, Ketchikan is a necessary stop. Customs, groceries, fuel, and provisions for the week ahead make it an important waypoint on the journey north. Today, our destination is Meyers Chuck. Most of the bay dries at low tide, which is how this cove earned its “Chuck” designation. 

The day’s run was a straightforward 32-nautical-mile journey. Departing around 0800, we continued north through Tongass Narrows, passing Guard Island Lighthouse along the way. Tongass Narrows eventually opens into Clarence Strait, a long body of water known for producing rough and sometimes unpredictable conditions. Fortunately, we had been watching the weather closely and were well prepared.

Not surprising for us, the crossing was uneventful. We passed a Coast Guard cutter, received a call from a cruise ship requesting a starboard-to-starboard passing arrangement, and steadily worked our way north.

Before long, we arrived at the entrance to Meyers Chuck. The entrance requires a tight turn, with a large, unmarked rock guarding the port side. At low tide, the rock becomes impressively visible and serves as a good reminder to pay attention.

With a little creative docking, everyone managed to find a place along the dock. We were greeted by a light drizzle that looked as though it might burn off at any moment.

Donning rain gear, many of us scrambled ashore to explore the island community, home to roughly twenty residents and even fewer during the winter months.

Tonight, we gathered aboard Sentindo Bem for our final Happy Hour as hosts aboard this beautiful Ocean Alexander. While it would not be our final gathering together, a transition in hosting vessels was just around the corner.

Charcuterie boards, salsa, guacamole, popcorn, deviled eggs, and countless other snacks found their way onto the table.

The conversations flowed naturally into Captain’s Hour and then drifted well beyond it. We talked about future plans, upcoming destinations, and what adventures awaited everyone after the flotilla ended. Of course, there was also plenty of discussion about Cassie and the cinnamon roll order we had placed for the following morning.

The end of the journey was approaching. While none of us were quite ready to say goodbye, we all knew it was inevitable. Our goal had been to reach the heart of Southeast Alaska, and somehow we were already nearly there. Had it really been three weeks? 

One by one, everyone disappeared back into the drizzle and returned to their floating sanctuaries for the night. Too quickly, another day had slipped away.

Over and Out
Charcuterie provider, cinnamon roll enthusiast, slow traveler.
— Sentindo Bem