Christmas at Anchor

Christmas at Anchor –2003 Tsehum Harbour            Lance Ekhart

As much as I really love living out here at anchor I have arranged a slip in a nearby marina for the rest of winter. I was not out here to save money or be a "freeloader" like some shore-bounders think. It easily costs me more to be out here in terms of time and expense. But out here I have a sense of a private world separate from the hustle and bustle of our modern world. Here I have space to think, meditate and find joy in my natural surroundings.

Last night, Christmas Eve was sparkling clear with millions of stars gazing at me above the dark surroundings of the harbor without the blinding lights of civilization to dim them. The darkness and crisp temperature served to contrast the inviting sense of warmth and cheer of my boat below with its fireplace heater reflecting dancing flames off the overhead and the rosy glow of my oil lamps mingling with the inspiring and heartwarming sounds of Christmas carols playing on the stereo. As I sat in the companionway, one side of me cool in the elements outside and other side of me warm from my fire below, sipping a cup of hot Christmas tea, I realized with joy how I had indeed created the life I intended many years ago. "It doesn’t get any better than this!" I thought to myself. I felt as one with my private world, living simply and synergistically with it and somehow it seemed to respond as a big shooting star streaked overhead just as I was feeling my reverie! I often stayed up late out here because it was so beautiful and peaceful under the canopy of watchful and protective stars.

I open my eyes and find the sun probing through any little openings in the boat as if to ask me to wake up and come out to play this gorgeous Christmas morning. I get up and look out to a 360 degree view of constantly changing natural beauty. I am surrounded by pretty tree-lined rocky shores not overly developed and the few boats attempting the tentative hold in the harbor over the long winter. A fleet of Merganzers cheerfully gossip as they take their morning bath, sunlight reflecting off the water they splash around them, A Kingfisher goes from boat to boat greeting each with it’s sharp staccato cry. The surface of the water is in some places so still as to reflect the bright billowy clouds and in other areas dark from light wind patches, all of it constantly changing places. I spy a Cormorant slowly moving around the bay on its floating island log. It is so quiet I can hear many birds celebrating the sunny morning all around me as an Eagle cries from its branch overhanging the edge of the harbor. Mom and pup seal pop their heads up next to my boat as if to greet me.

I feel both joyful and saddened and I start to cry as I feel all my nature friends here are coming by to say goodbye and I remember the joy they have given me during my stay here. There were the giant white swans that would escort me out to the boat in the middle of a beautiful summer evening, sillouhetted in the bright sea-path of the full moon like magical creatures. Or the time they would wake me up at night tapping on the hull with their beaks asking for a treat like I often gave them. I remember being startled by seals popping up closely behind my dinghy and loudly snorting on a black moonless night on my way out to the boat. At times I must have looked like a lunatic as I splashed my oars and madly rowed around in circles in the middle of the night playing in the bright bio-luminescense. I always looked forward to the heartwarming spring day when mom and pop Canada Goose would proudly bring their new flock of tiny squeaking goslings by my boat for a first handout. Like my last spring cruise in this boat I feel like something beautiful and rewarding is coming to an end and I don’t want to give it up. Looking East I see the peak of Mt Baker peering over the top of the clouds over the innumerable islands beckoning me to come out and play amongst them. Some things have to end to allow something better to take their place, but I am humbly grateful for the wonderful experience I have had out here on Shariyat.

I have rarely failed to feel a sense of freedom and appreciation as I rowed my dinghy out to the boat, regardless of the weather and "sea" condition out here, however I don’t want to give the impression that life was without calamity! I will never forget rowing out in a gale and finding my boat simply gone from where I left it and the horrible feeling of dread I had before I found it safe on the other side of the anchorage. It could seem a sobering test of survival at times to get out to the boat in a real snorter. I might only get one try to latch on to the boat as my dinghy blew downwind towards it in a southeast blow, possibly not being able to row back against it. In those conditions getting aboard the boat with my gear from the dinghy was like mounting a bucking bronco with the frigid tentacles of numbing water waiting patiently for me just inches below. It helped me to appreciate the seriousness of living out here in self-sufficiency. It was often a lesson in tolerance too when other sailors would anchor too close and immediately leave their boat forcing me to mount my outboard, up-anchor and move my boat away.

At its worst in a storm my attitude would change to accepting the challenge of a test, as I consider myself in training to do really serious cruising to far away places. I realized if I couldn’t handle this now, how would I do it then? Some nights I got no sleep at all while I bobbed around terribly and my wind generator, my only source of power in the winter, screamed overhead, but I was grateful to be filling my batteries. I knew this was a test of my boat’s cruising systems also and I appreciated the opportunity to test them in real-world conditions. The loss of sleep seems trivial compared to the benefits of being out here, although I have to admit that in the moment I didn’t always feel that way!

Being out here makes me think I am living the cruising life already, even though I haven’t gone very far yet. This was especially true in the summer when many serious cruising boats from all over the world passed through on their continuing voyages. Many a good yarn, and many a useful idea I gained when I would row over to welcome them to my home. Coming in to a slip makes me think I’m taking a step back from the wonderful lifestyle I created. And in fact I am, but I take consolation in knowing my new boat is successfully being rebuilt and will soon enough bring me back out here again with more capability and comfort. Being at a slip for the rest of the winter will allow me to have more time to work on the new boat without having to worry about the old boat at anchor. And I know the lessons I learned out here will be invaluable to designing and equipping the new boat’s cruising systems.

But perhaps what is also saddening me this Christmas morning is the realization that the very possibility of this lifestyle is becoming extinct on the West Coast. As what I call "Rampant Corporatism" seems to consume and dominate our lives, I can think of very few places where one can live at anchor with relative safety, convenience and natural beauty. Even here, rumors say that influential people are actively engaged in trying to eliminate this anchorage. Even if that never comes to be, without established contacts ashore it is nearly impossible to find a place to put ashore in a dinghy for any length of time. In desperation, some folks try to sneak into the surrounding marinas to get ashore, fill water, take a shower or dump their potties properly. They are then labeled "freeloaders" and are used as fuel in the arguments to eliminate them or make things even tougher. I’ve talked to liveaboards out here who have firsthand experience with bayside businessmen retaliating with vandalism to anchored boats, cutting dinghy painters, and calls to the Coast Guard claiming anchored boats were "hazards to navigation" (result: they were not). Like me, I’m sure serious liveaboards or cruisers would gladly pay a reasonable fee for minimal marina or landing privileges, but they are not generally available. Maybe I’m wrong but it seems to me these people are seen as somehow threatening to the ideals or aspirations of many people ashore. Or perhaps being so heavily taxed and overcharged for everything in their shorebound lives they displace their anger toward those who have created a lifestyle to seemingly minimize it, not realizing the other sometimes great expense and sacrifices these liveaboards and cruisers endure to be doing it. As my neighbor told me "I’d like to see them live out here for a month in the winter and then tell me its freeloading!"

So today a beautiful thing seems to be coming to an end, in more ways than one. I dearly hope with my new boat completed I will again be able to enjoy the freedom and satisfaction of living in these rare and precious places, if they still exist, but its time to raise the anchor one last time with Shariyat and come back into the "real world" for a while.