Neah Bay to Newport OR
The horizon lost behind a wall of swell under a smoky sky.
The sun hadn’t even begun to cast a lightness in the eastern sky when our alarms went off and we were out of bed, getting ready to untie from the dock at 3:30am. The marina was lit up, but beyond it’s walls lay dark waters littered with crab pots and old pilings, and we had never driven Via in the dark before.
With one big push we were loose from the dock and making our way out into the early morning darkness. I stood on the bow with a spotlight, illuminating various dangers as we wove our way through the Port Angeles bay, and made the turn out into the Straight of Juan de Fuca.
Waters were still, and as the sun began to rise, it was clouded behind a smoky haze— must be fires somewhere. The eerie orange orb got higher in the morning sky, just as the swells did too. We were surprised to see ocean swell so far inside the straight, and as the hours went on and we got further out, the swells grew. Horizons disappeared as we climbed up up up mountains of water and then slid down the other side into wide, deep valleys. They were far apart and regular enough and otherwise smooth that it was almost fun— though looking down the valleys of these water mountain ranges put into perspective just how enormous they actually were, and sent a slight shiver down our spines. While some were bigger than others, we certainly saw a handful that were easily 20 feet. They were staggering to summit. Will it be like this out there?
While I watched the wheel and the building swell, Mike was down in the engine room, watching the Racor filters for remnants of water. With more appearing than he was expecting to see, it occurred to him that after mistakenly putting the water hose in the diesel fill a week ago, some water must have gotten stuck in the flat part of the internal hose, and was therefore missed by the professional we had out to extract the water from the bottom of our diesel tank, and got washed in after topping off. He spent the first several hours of our trek down the straight in the “hole”, or lazaret, bleeding out the remaining water, bit by bit.
We finally arrived at Neah Bay as the sun was high in the sky and we pulled in to drop anchor. This would be our last easily accessible “rest stop” for some time, so we took full advantage of it but didn’t dally— we had to get out and make the turn and be out of the hectic waters of the mouth of the straight before nightfall.
We had made up our quarter berth as the place that we would sleep while underway since the bow of the boat gets more motion than the back, and the dogs like being tucked in that little cave near the cockpit in rough conditions. I put Penny in there as the chop began to build approaching Neah Bay, and in her distress she peed the bed— our bed — not even a few hours into our multi day long voyage. Ah well, nothing to be done about it now.
With a few last minute checks, we picked up the anchor and headed back out. Within a couple of hours we had Cape Flattery off the port side, and through the haze and smokey air could see colossal waves crashing on the rocky cliffs of Tattoosh Island in the distance. Mike spotted a spout a ways of the bow, a whale! I caught a glimpse of its tail as it dove down deep, and then surfaced again before another dive. It almost seemed like a dream, riding the wild waves through the haze with the dramatic coast in the distance, watching the humpback whale wave at us before returning to the deep.
As the angry and wild weather systems of the Northern Pacific rage hundreds of miles to the west, and the tidal waves converge with huge ocean swell at the pinch point of the straight, massive amounts of water get forced into the mouth of the Straight, and some reverbs off of the coasts. These waters are notorious for being confused, large, and intimidating, and they certainly delivered. The swell was no longer regular, smooth, in-line, or far apart. We were pitched and heaved by the steep walls of water, dropping from the peaks the way you do from the top of a rollercoaster— almost a free fall, with our bow just nearly clearing the base of the next one before we were climbing again.
While they were coming from multiple directions, the biggest ones seemed to be from the NW. We needed to be going straight into them in order to avoid topsy turkey rolls at the top and bottom, but this was taking us further from where we needed to go: SW. We just have to get our main up and get out of this area, and hopefully things will calm down and we can make our turn.
With the wind directly behind us, raising the main proved to be its own Everest, as it required we do a (two) 180 degree turn in this wild sea state, offering ourselves beam-on to the unforgiving peaks and valleys of the powerful swell. We had a couple moments where we were rolled and heeled sharply and aggressively— I think I may have involuntarily screamed at one point. But we managed to get the sail hoisted and pointed ourselves on course, and the main helped stabilize us a little bit against the onslaught of messy chop and giant swell.
Within a couple hours we were out of the mouth of the straight and the swell began to stabilize. We made contact with the 125th meridian west, the line of longitude that we will follow south. Sea lions porpoised in tandem through the sunlight waves. Giant flocks of sea birds grazed the surface of the golden water with their wings. We both felt a bit stunned (exhausted) at what we had just encountered, a bit relieved that we were finally beyond the chaos of that area, and a bit concerned about what may be still to come. And a whole lot nauseous: sea sickness was here, for us all.
As the sun began its decent into a smoky horizon, a sliver of a crescent moon appeared just near it. We took a moment to appreciate the seas that were now smooth, the sky that was now pink, and the land that was now beyond sight. During my sunset watch as Mike got some sleep, I saw a sunfish, more sea lions, and a tope shark.
“Somethings coming toward us, what is that!?” Visible lines of motion and bubbles jetted across the surface of the water, moving right at us at a hundred miles an hour. Torpedos?!
Smooth gray bodies became visible under the gloss of the shearing water: Dall’s porpoises! This species of porpoise is famous for its speed, and man alive did they perform their talents for us. Moving up to 35 mph, they darted around us, behind us, and underneath us— disappearing, reappearing, moving at incomprehensible speeds. The dogs went berserk. We were in complete awe.
As darkness set in, so did my seasickness. Not being able to see the horizon, or the medium that was constantly rolling us about at every angle, created a vertigo effect that intensified my overwhelming sense of ickiness. But I was snapped out of it a handful of times by the most stunning and massive shooting stars I have ever seen in my life. The Perseid meter shower was in full effect, and sent streaks from the zenith to where I imagine the horizon lay, leaving thick, glowing trails that lasted seconds. At one point I thought there was a lightning ahead, only to realize it was a meteor above the bimini and out of my line of sight that had illuminated the entire sky, the way lightning does.
We traded 3 hour long watches, trying to get some sleep in the cockpit in a sleeping bag, but as the damp air began to saturate everything in sight, we moved it below. We were both able to actually get some rest, though we both already felt as though we could sleep for a week— and this was only night 1.
By sunrise the fog had arrived and the dense bands of moisture that we were moving through made it seem as if it were raining. Everything was soaked. My fingers we pruny for 8 hours. And the seas were messy and choppy again, with a moderately sized swell.
As my seasickness persisted (worsened), I was tied to the cockpit. Specifically, one seat in the cockpit, looking forward, and not moving. Anything that was anywhere beyond that spot— or god forbid, down below— didn’t exist anymore. Mike occasionally fetched me ginger tea and refilled my water, but my stomach was upside down. I turned to the side and threw up off the stern, more than once. As Mike’s nausea had improved, he also looked after the dogs, carefully walking them forward to use the pee pad a couple times a day, and attempting to get food and water into them as well.
We motor sailed through the cold wet air and rough seas for most of the day. I counted my layers: 6. Tank top, thermal, thick hoodie, a puffer coat, bibs, and foul weather jacket. “This isn’t fun” Mike said at some point. I nodded through my nausea, recalling the words a fellow cruisers shared with us recently.
She warned us that this passage would be unlike anything else we would encounter in our time living aboard and traveling. “Its the hardest passage you’ll have to make. Do not be discouraged— it won’t all be like this.” At the time those well intentioned words brought up a hint of fear, but now, they seemed to bring relief. It won’t all be like this. This is the hardest part.
Later in the day the choppy waves had died out, leaving just the swell, and it helped us all to be able to be relatively stable after being bounced around for so many hours. The sun tried to peek through the foggy haze and did a couple times, but we remained surrounded by walls of gray.
That night Mike took the bulk of the night watch as exhaustion had taken over and I had difficulty remaining alert (er.. awake) on my watches. I got a few extra hours in and woke to the sound of the winch being cranked: Mike had flown the headsail and cut the engine. I crept upstairs, taken aback by the profound quiet. After having the engine on for 2 days straight, we were now silently slicing our way through the silken midnight water.
With the shift in the sails meant that there was a shift in our lights. Our bright steaming light could now be turned off, which meant that not only were we silent, we now blended in with the night (except of course, for our running lights). Within minutes of losing these lights, bioluminescence began to appear all around us. Our path through the water was illuminated, leaving a following of blue sparkles, our wake off the sides sent glowing waves out into the dark, and we even saw some fish swim behind us for a while, evidenced only by their shimmering, wiggling trails.
Not too far in the distance we could see something illuminated, something large, glowing with bioluminescence. We could not make out what it was and what the sound was? It was busy, sounding almost like a stream— something with lots of movement. By the time we had the spotlight on it it had faded behind us into the misty night. I think it was a large school of fish, all franticly moving about on the surface.
The wind died to 4 knots, and even though the sails were limp and we were barely moving, we both sat and admired the magic of it all that night, before we had to turn the engine and bright lights back on.
The fog persisted into the third day, but at least the seas had remained smooth. Finally! A mild swell and no chop— what we had been waiting for (and thought we’d have the whole time, ha!). My body ached from holding onto something for 3 days straight as we pitched and rolled, and my hands had new calluses from constant gripping on stainless steel. But my sea sickness had improved and I was able to eat a piece of toast and even go down below!
To attempt to stay alert during my morning watch, I decided to start counting jellyfish. We had already passed dozens, and they just kept coming. In two 20 minute windows standing in the cockpit, I counted 641!
Our path south was almost entirely quiet — we were well outside of the fishing boats and crab pots, but still interior of the shipping lanes, so we saw almost no other boats except for a few way off in the horizon. We traveled just beyond the continental shelf, with over 5000 feet of water beneath our keel.
We moved through our silver-colored world for hours, heading for Newport. With the Racors not being as clean as Mike would like, and our ETA into Crescent City coming just hours before a gale that is slated to move in later that day, we decided it would be best to stop in Newport and tend to the engine, refuel, sleep, shower, hydrate, do laundry and recoup. It had been a trying couple of days.
This area of coast is known as “The Graveyard of the Pacific”, with over 2,000 wrecks here since the 1970’s. Rough, serious weather blows in from the North Pacific, hitting a coastline that is littered with rocks, islands, and shoals. The only inlets along this stretch of land are rivers, which means that every exit off the ocean and into a harbor requires that you cross a sandbar. These bars are notoriously dangerous and ever changing, and in certain tides and sea states are even closed down altogether. The Coast Guard offers escorts in and out, because in their words, they would rather escort you in now, than have to go out and look for bodies later. Great.
We called ahead to talk with the Coast Guard to be sure that in today’s conditions and with our low-powered sail boat, we would be able to get in, and they assured us it would be ok. We made game plans about what we would do should our engine fail while in there, and other worst-case scenarios.
We made our way through the fog, nearly missing crab pots and dodging irreverent fishing boats, looking for the buoy that marks the end of the channel. Once we saw it, we made a sharp left, heading into the channel, still not able to see land through the fog. Small fishing boats raced past us, adding rolly waves to contend with as we mounted the swell that builds as you approach the bar. We made it over the bar and then scrambled to get fenders and lines out, as the marina was just over there, and the current inside the river mouth was ripping us around.
We made the turn into the marina doing the Tokyo Drift, getting carried by current, with Via in full throttle trying to keep us off the jetty. Once we turned the corner though, we were met with chaos: a half a dozen small fishing boats, all zipping around — some in reverse, some in neutral just sitting there, some driving on the wrong side of the marina “street”. It looked like a Trader Joes parking lot. On Thanksgiving.
With poor steerage and no room to pause, I had to climb to the bow and start yelling at boats to move out of our way. It was Saturday afternoon, the fuel dock had a line waiting, and the ignorance of a sailboat of our size’s lack of maneuverability was clear. After just barely clearing 2 boats, and Mike performing an impressive turn around to get us broad side to the dock, we managed to tie Via up without hitting anything. The adrenaline running through our veins was overwhelming, and combined with the exhaustion and stress of the last few days, it all felt like too much.
The end of the guest dock area has a dock that is twisted almost 90 degrees sideways— someone had clearly hit it, and I’m not surprised. As the fishing boats continued to buzz and race around the tight marina entrance, we saw a boat pull in for a docking at a reckless speed, fully hit the dock and send the bow up over the concrete, before it slipped back in— with a couple people hopping off and laughing. As they passed by us on the dock you could tell how high they were, with other boats around us cracking beers and playing music. It was a circus to come back to after 3 days at sea. An absolute circus.
Once settled and showered, we both crashed. I slept for 14 hours. Today we feel hungover— tired, a little braindead, and in a daze.
We are tied to this dock and will remain here for the next week while a large high pressure system moves in along the whole west coast. Both of our stomachs turn when we think of getting out of here— far harder than getting in — and crossing the bar with the swell that is sure to be left behind from this system.
We need the wind, waves, swell, tides, current, fog and time of day to all align in order to safety leave the Newport river and head back out into the open ocean. But those are concerns for another day.
For now, our first leg is behind us, and though its all far from being over, and we’re still hundreds of miles from calmer seas, we’re proud, grateful, and happy to be making our way.
