I’m not sure where we’ll be when I post this, but I know where we are right now: Cutter Cove. I’d like to be more specific, but when I asked Mandy what island this little bay was carved out of, she standing at the helm with easy access to the chart plotter, she looked down, punched a few buttons, and shrugged. “It doesn’t feel like saying.”
In a fit of pique, I went below to consult the definitive reference, our Canadian Hydrographic Survey charts. They didn’t have the name of the island, either. And it’s not like this is a small island… it’s quite large, so large, in fact, that it extends off the edge of the particular chart I was consulting. Perhaps, to save ink, they only print the name on the other end of the island, presumably on some other chart.
I could go dig that one out but I don’t care much. We’re only staying here for a single night, there’s nothing else apparently remarkable about the place other than that it is not Blenkinsop Bay.
Blenkinsop Bay is where we spent last night, tucked into a broad bight off of Johnstone Strait. We often seem to spend nights in Blenkinsop Bay just off Johnstone Strait, usually because we have been over-ambitious and have secretly dreamed grandeous dreams of getting all the way up to the bomb-proof anchorage of Port Neville by day’s end. Port Neville is only two miles up the strait from Blenkinsop, and it is everything that Blenkinsop is not… well-sheltered, shallow, vast, picturesque.
But that dream is as unobtainable for us as Tantalus’ grapes, because every single time we punt our way out of Current Passage, it seems like we hit a wall of wind and those big, choppy waves that Johnstone Strait is famous for. Two more miles might as well be half an ocean, and Blenkinsop Bay is right there, staring at us, unsmiling, with the door held open, a surly inn-keeper who knows they have they only room left in town and you’re going to take it whether the beds are lumpy or not.
And, whether we sail or motor, that’s the inevitable destination, and we look longingly up the channel before swinging in, alone, and setting the anchor in the teeth of winds and waves that, were they not being directly compared to the monsters roaring just outside the entrance, would immediately suggest a re-consideration of life choices.
In the nights that inevitably follow, we are pummeled about, heaved around the cabin and rolled sidelong in our berth, screeched at all the while by demons shaking the rigging overhead.
Every morning after we spend an evening in Blenkinsop Bay, we toddle past the entrance to Port Neville bright and early, ploughing north through placid waters and light breezes, and watch a fleet of smarter, better-prepared boats exiting single-file, looking incredibly well-rested and laid-back. We snarl and keep going.
So Cutter Cove seems pretty idyllic right now, even though a bit of a breeze is kicking up.