April 9, 2006,

            Our last day was mostly uneventful.  The weather had cleared, and the winds were light and breezy.  Barb and I did not feel like raising the sails.  We simply motored our way home.  Leaving Des Moines very early in the morning, we pushed the entire distance to Olympia in the reverse order of our trip North.  It was refreshing to see the light house at Boston Harbor, as well as to motor sail back into Budd Inlet.  I was a bit sad when we could finally see the Washington capital again, but we had learned a lot, both about our boat, ourselves, and our family.  Nesaru had kept us going, and I was proud to be part of her history and legacy.  Until our next trip, we will continue to pray for good fortunes, warm friends, high tides, and fair winds.

April 8, 2006,
 

            Today proved to be one of the most challenging and overwhelming days of our trip, and up to this point, of my sailing experiences.  I am sure I can say with absolute certainty that is was equally “defeating” for my family as well.  We departed from Bainbridge Island and Eagle Harbor early at 8 Am after a short breakfast of coffee and fruit.  I knew we were in for it as soon as we left the bay, for the skies were overcast and the wind had subsided very little over the last 12 hours.  If anything, it had increased from 15-20 knots to a steady 18-25.  I knew that it was only a matter of time before small craft advisories were issued.  However, we were under a tight time line as we had planned to be in the Tacoma Marina by night fall, and had made reservations for lunch at Blake Island in a place known as Tillicum village.  No sooner had we swung free from the bay then we were met with our old nemesis, the channel and our reef.  The wind was a steady 18 knots on the nose from the South/South West, directly into the direction we needed to go, with white caps as far as I could see.  It was important to both Barb and I that we make it to Blake Island, as it was to be the “highlight” of the trip.  So, with waves over the bow, the thru holes sealed shut, and the hatches latched off, we headed at a close haul with the waves on our faces.

Blake Island was an ancestral camping ground of the Suquamish Indian tribe, and legend has it Chief Seattle was born there. It is believed the island was named by naval explorer Captain Charles Wilkes in honor of George Smith Blake, who commanded U.S. Coast Survey vessels from 1837 to 1848. William Pitt Trimble acquired the island at the turn of the century and re-named it Trimble Island, transforming it into a magnificent private estate. After his wife was killed in Seattle in 1929, Trimble never returned to the property. The foundation of his mansion still stands, although the home itself has been destroyed by fire. The property became Blake Island State Park in October, 1974.  Blake Island offered a unique Northwest Indian dining and cultural experience at Tillicum Village. You can schedule and enjoy a barbecued salmon dinner cooked in traditional Native American style while watching Northwest Indian dancing.  Their web page, at http://www.tillicumvillage.com/, offers more information, but we refused to miss it. 

                                    
         
         By the time we could point Nesaru on an azimuth that would set us into the Tillicum Village bay, it was already 1000 am.  We were exhausted from forcing the boat to weather over two hours, but happy we had made the village in time for the Salmon dinner.  We were greeted by views of the native American Log and Smoke House from Blake Island to the South, and Seattle to the North.  It was beautiful.  We were able to reach the peer right as a light sprinkle began to fall.  The park offered 1,500 feet of moorage. Twenty-one mooring buoys and a linear moorage system was available for overnight boaters. A boat pump was also available. Moorage fees are charged year-round for mooring at docks, floats and buoys from 1 p.m. to 8 a.m.: Daily moorage fee is 50 cents per foot, with a minimum of $10.  Moorage buoys are $10 a night.  The annual moorage permit fee is $3.50 per foot, with a minimum of $50.  Moorage permits are available at parks offering moorage. You can find more by going to: http://www.parks.wa.gov/parkpage.asp?selectedpark=Blake%20Island&pageno=1.  AS we departed the boat, we were greeted by several dozen totem poles positioned at the end of the peers.  It was surreal.  The grounds were very well kept up, and dozens of statutes had been placed throughout the island which had been created by the Indians.  Barb and Nicolette moved into the main log house, where we would be dinning for lunch, in order to secure tickets for us.  Sophia and I began to look around at the Native American art and the side trails which cross the island.  Within a matter of moments I was astonished to find a herd of wild deer grazing on the grass several meters from the edge of the trail. There were at least several Dow.  Sophia and I crept as close as we could take photos as we went.  We were able to reach within 50 meters before Sophia’s little two years old mind could stand it no longer.  With a Gail full screech of, “Doggy Daddy!” I lost control of her and she ran down the trail towards the bewildered creatures!  At first shocked, the gained the composure after a brief moment and bounded into the wood line, gone forever.  Sophia let out a wail of displeasure, but I found satisfaction in the knowledge that I had been able to secure several photos of her chasing down the creatures.  While Barb missed the chase, she was able to get a good view from the deer from the porch and corner of the lodge.  After the excitement we walked the trails until the ferry from Seattle arrived with the rest of the guests for the show.

                                     

Once we entered the lodge we were pleased to learn that we would be receiving front row seats to the Show!  The trip had been worth it.  We Walked up a path strewn with white clamshells bleached by the sun and enjoyed steaming clams in nectar broth, while dinning in an authentic cedar longhouse and savored salmon baked over open fires on cedar stakes. The show was sublime, with a spellbinding dance performance, which provided an emotional journey through the legends and dances of the Northwest Coastal Indians.  Once it was complete, we browsed through a Gift Gallery of Northwest Coast Native American art, which included hand carved masks, plaques, totem poles and beaded.  The most remarkable thing I found in the gallery was a speech which had been given by Chief Seattle, for which the city of Seattle is named.  The speech was mounted on the wall of the lodge, and not for sale.  While writing this entry I found a copy on the internet and provided it here in its full version.  I know it is long, but I think it truly reflects the northwest’s attitudes toward the Puget Sound, and a vision of life I would like to pass down to my children as well.  Here is a copy of it for your review:

Version 1 (below) appeared in the Seattle Sunday Star on Oct. 29, 1887, in a column by Dr. Henry A. Smith.

                           "CHIEF SEATTLE'S 1854 ORATION" - ver . 1

          AUTHENTIC TEXT OF CHIEF SEATTLE'S TREATY ORATION 1854

Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon my people for centuries untold, and which to us appears changeless and eternal, may change. Today is fair. Tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never change. Whatever Seattle says, the great chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as he can upon the return of the sun or the seasons. The white chief says that Big Chief at Washington sends us greetings of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him for we know he has little need of our friendship in return. His people are many. They are like the grass that covers vast prairies. My people are few. They resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain. The great, and I presume -- good, White Chief sends us word that he wishes to buy our land but is willing to allow us enough to live comfortably. This indeed appears just, even generous, for the Red Man no longer has rights that he need respect, and the offer may be wise, also, as we are no longer in need of an extensive country.

There was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor, but that time long since passed away with the greatness of tribes that are now but a mournful memory. I will not dwell on, nor mourn over, our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers with hastening it, as we too may have been somewhat to blame.

Youth is impulsive. When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their faces with black paint, it denotes that their hearts are black, and that they are often cruel and relentless, and our old men and old women are unable to restrain them. Thus it has ever been. Thus it was when the white man began to push our forefathers ever westward. But let us hope that the hostilities between us may never return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Revenge by young men is considered gain, even at the cost of their own lives, but old men who stay at home in times of war, and mothers who have sons to lose, know better.

Our good father in Washington--for I presume he is now our father as well as yours, since King George has moved his boundaries further north--our great and good father, I say, sends us word that if we do as he desires he will protect us. His brave warriors will be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his wonderful ships of war will fill our harbors, so that our ancient enemies far to the northward -- the Haidas and Tsimshians -- will cease to frighten our women, children, and old men. Then in reality he will be our father and we his children. But can that ever be? Your God is not our God! Your God loves your people and hates mine! He folds his strong protecting arms lovingly about the paleface and leads him by the hand as a father leads an infant son. But, He has forsaken His Red children, if they really are His. Our God, the Great Spirit, seems also to have forsaken us. Your God makes your people wax stronger every day. Soon they will fill all the land. Our people are ebbing away like a rapidly receding tide that will never return. The white man's God cannot love our people or He would protect them. They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere for help. How then can we be brothers? How can your God become our God and renew our prosperity and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness? If we have a common Heavenly Father He must be partial, for He came to His paleface children. We never saw Him. He gave you laws but had no word for His red children whose teeming multitudes once filled this vast continent as stars fill the firmament. No; we are two distinct races with separate origins and separate destinies. There is little in common between us.

To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground. You wander far from the graves of your ancestors and seemingly without regret. Your religion was written upon tablets of stone by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget. The Red Man could never comprehend or remember it. Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors -- the dreams of our old men, given them in solemn hours of the night by the Great Spirit; and the visions of our sachems, and is written in the hearts of our people.

Your dead cease to love you and the land of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb and wander away beyond the stars. They are soon forgotten and never return. Our dead never forget this beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its verdant valleys, its murmuring rivers, its magnificent mountains, sequestered vales and verdant lined lakes and bays, and ever yearn in tender fond affection over the lonely hearted living, and often return from the happy hunting ground to visit, guide, console, and comfort them.

Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the approach of the White Man, as the morning mist flees before the morning sun. However, your proposition seems fair and I think that my people will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them. Then we will dwell apart in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem to be the words of nature speaking to my people out of dense darkness.

It matters little where we pass the remnant of our days. They will not be many. The Indian's night promises to be dark. Not a single star of hope hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate seems to be on the Red Man's trail, and wherever he will hear the approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.

A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of the descendants of the mighty hosts that once moved over this broad land or lived in happy homes, protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to mourn over the graves of a people once more powerful and hopeful than yours. But why should I mourn at the untimely fate of my people? Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless. Your time of decay may be distant, but it will surely come, for even the White Man whose God walked and talked with him as friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We will see.

We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know. But should we accept it, I here and now make this condition that we will not be denied the privilege without molestation of visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors, friends, and children. Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as the swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch. Our departed braves, fond mothers, glad, happy hearted maidens, and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season, will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits. And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children's children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land. The White Man will never be alone.

Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless. Dead, did I say? There is no death, only a change of worlds.”

            Barb and I were sad as we departed the warmth of the lodge, but know we had a long trip ahead of us to Tacoma Marina.  I knew we were in for it as soon as we made it back down the shell covered path to the bay.  I could see dark skies in every direction, and the wind had not subsided or shifted yet.  Additionally, the rain had picked up.  The end of the day was going to be a very, very hard fight.  Another vessel (her name eludes me right now), watched in amazement as we began to cast off our lines.  Its skipper asked our destination, and implied insanity as he heard our response.  A quick recommendation of staying put for the night was debated, but in the end the lines were cast and we went for it.  I would soon wish we hadn’t.

            Within sight of the channel we were conducting a man over board drill.  The wind was on our nose at 15-20 knots out of the South / South West (directly on our nose), and every wave was breaking over Nesaru’s bow.  While setting the main sail, the boom crutch had come loose from Barb.  It was simply to much weather helm and wind for her to control the sail and wheel at the same time.  I should have known better to begin with.  We circled around and were able to rescue the crutch, but could now very clearly see what we were in for.  We beat to weather across Blake Island, and then cut East toward the “east Passage” enroute to Tacoma. We intended to go South through Colvos Passage.  However, once we could see the course, a heated debate began on several different topics.  Firstly, we were not sure how much of this Nesaru could take.  She had never been in anything like this at our hands before.  We knew she was a rough weather baby and could take a beating, but it is one thing to read about it and another to be in it.  The second issue was what course to set.  As we were undecided as to rather we would be able to sail southward, we were tempted to head across the bay toward Seattle.  The thought did enter our minds that with a Westerbeak store in Seattle, they could look at the engine and fix our still failing engine throttle for us, and we would be saved from the pains of the waves which had already drenched us.  Another option was to head on a slightly altered course through the East Passage toward the Des Moines Marina.  This would get us half way there at least, but we would still be left to head back into her directly for the last half of the trip.  Our last option, to turn back, did not even enter our minds.  Barb did some calculating while I held the wheel, and soon recommended we push to Des Moines along the outer passage.  I glanced one last time at the inner passage and Colvos Passage back toward Gig Harbor and sighed in relief that we were not going to fight that battle, and steered her onto her new course.  For several hours we sailed hard.  I was astonished at the wind.  During an inspection of the sails I noticed that the Staysail had finally began to give way, with rips appearing all along the luff.   With the engine giving as small a push as it did, we decided to keep her up.  There was too much wind for the jib, so we would pray she would hold.  I could not help but to think of the Gordon Lightfoot song, “The wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald.”  The line, “Does anyone know where the love of G-d goes when the waves change the minutes to hours?...”

            By 3 Pm we needed to make another choice.  With the welcome sight of Demoin in sight, we could either push south toward Tacoma, or hold where we were at.  For the love of G-d, we decided to push south.  It took 10 minutes for me to regret my decision, and the next 4 hours to correct it.  We pushed at a close haul during that entire time, tacking back and forth, through Poverty Bay west of Saltwater State Park.  By 5 PM the wind had actually picked up, and every other wave sent the bow sprit straight into the drink.  As it disappeared into the murky depths of Davy Jones locker, I actually, for the first time in my life, began to fear for the welfare of our family.  At 6 PM the Staysail tore straight out, and we had already reefed the main to the first set of grombits.  The weather helm was tremendous, and every time we tacked I was not sure if she would even come about.  At least once the main sheet tore loose and we had to scramble to recover her.  At 7 PM Barb noticed that the Port Cabin windows were actually under water!  With Nesaru heeling as badly as she was, with a single reef and no jib or stay sail to think of, we were not making any further headway.  Every wave swapped the cockpit, and we were beginning to take water into the cabin through the forward birth and mast step.  In all truth, my indecision and complete determination not to fail making the waters of Poverty Bay had kept us pushing into the eye for the last hour.  It was at this point that I began to falter, however.  Stained with salt from the waves and stained to the core of my soul by the chill of the wind, I implored Barb for her thoughts.  She left it to me, which crushed me even further as I turned tail and ran.  We never made Browns Point.  The blame laid now squarely on my shoulders.  Having never been defeated by the elements before, this was a bitter defeat.  What we had fought to gain for the past four hours was lost in less then 20 minutes.  We limped, latterly, into Des Moins.  The harbor master met us at the gas dock.  He seemed almost curious as we pulled in and assisted in tying us off.  Once secure, he politely told me that he had been off since 5 Pm, but had been watching us through his Binos for the last 2 hours to see if we would be ok.  When I implied to the cost of the dock, he simply said stay here, we can talk cost tomorrow.  For now, take care of your family.  – and that’s what I did.  As I moved below I saw that Barb was tending to the children.  I set down on my birth, and fell asleep as I sit, exhausted from the elements and the weight of my defeat. 

We learned a valuable lesson that day.  The bays may be a fitting place to learn how to sail, and the sound may not be open water, but it is still the ocean.  The waters are no place for the inexperienced to be or play.  We will never again underestimate the powers of the ocean or wind.  I suppose, in some greater irony, that it was this exact relationship that I had set out to establish in the first place.  Though pain comes growth, and we had bled this day indeed.  Barb and I will count ourselves blessed to be in good health, and we will more closely at the skies before we set out on another day such as this again.

April 7^, 2006.

            A Storm, a Storm, Ohhh batten down the hatches ya young man, batten down the hatches!  I suppose we could not hold out forever.  While the day started out elegant enough, by mid afternoon we were in what I would consider a little bit of a tough.  The winds were against us now, having not shifted yet from the South.  If they didn’t change within the next 48 hours, we were going to have a rather difficult time making our way back to Olympia.  With 15-20 knots on the nose, we close hauled and pushed the distance to Eagle Harbor.  We had to go through Sinclain Inlet East, South of White Point and North of Glover Point.  We then “played” in Elliott Bat to the East and Port Blakely to the West until we could reach Eagle Bay.  As far as the eye could see were white caps, and not a single other vessel on the water to great us.  What should have been an easy days sail turned into a hard fight.  We sailed it all, however, having not wanting to use the engine until we reached the breach of the channel.  Seattle’s skyline provided a back drop as we pushed our way, tacking back and forth all of the way across Elliott Bay, until we were able to reach the slight shelter at Eagle Bay.  I was glad to do so, as this was the first real wind Barb had ever been in, and the children did not seem to take kindly to it.  We were close hailed the entire way, and as we passed the Glover Point we could only reach the bay by tacking back and forth to reach the correct angle.  In addition to the strong winds and waves, we also had to contend with the ferries, which frequented these waters moving back and froth from Seattle to the various little islands in the area.  More then once we had to give way, tack, or heave too in order to allow one to pass ahead or behind.  More then one wave made it over the bow and in our laps.  It was refreshing for myself, who had not been in a strong breeze for quite a long time.  Nesaru held strong, but I could see the toll on the Staysail, which was now beginning to fray, particularly around the head and foot of the sail.  Around 4 PM we made the channel.  The bay was small, but seemed to do well in protecting the boats within it.  We were approaching during low tide, and I found myself more then astonished as Barb yelled to me on the deck (I was coiling rope and sail) that she could hear an alarm sounding from below deck.  A quick scan of the horizon showed that we were still in the channel, albeit a bit to the West.  I could not imagine our depth being to low as Ferries passed through here day and night.  I could still see Seattle on the back drop as I yelled back to have the engine temperature checked.  Barb yelled forward that the temperature was a solid 180 degrees, but the depth gage read 5 feet!  I thought ridicules as I looked over the side.  How could we possible be at 5 feet?  We have an old depth meter, and so it could possible have meant 105 feet, as once it reaches 100 is simply starts over again.  I quickly changed my mind as Barb and I both simultaneously notices star fish below us as the murky waters finally revealed Davy Jones hidden secret.  We were on a reef!  A reef less then 50 meters from the channel…  Lesson learned.  We jibed as quickly as we could and headed for deep water.  Luckily, and by the skin of our teeth, we missed bottom.  It would not have been good for us if we had hit, as the tide was going out at the time, and we would have been stuck there for much longer then I would have liked, in a channel very heavily used by ferries, with the sun going down.. 

            As we moved into the bay through the channel, we were greeted with a sight I can only describe as reminiscent of a Disney Black beard movie.  It was truly surreal.  There were dozens of older schooners and Catches moored in the bay.  All of which, however, showed there age, and several were tied to rafts and “raft boats” were people had built homes right on the water next to their boats.  It was truly nostalgic of another era.  Before we even headed for the marina we circled around several of the vessels at anchor.  Some had holes in their sides which were clearly visible.  Although old and perhaps on their last leg, it seemed to me as if we had entered a play land of old retired boaters.  As we approached the docks, Barb noticed the location of the night harbor masters boat.  I was in shock – there truly is no other word to describe it.  The vessel was a large tug boat, but I could only discern that from shape alone, as she was covered from bow to transom with both firewood and gasoline cans!  The deck was completely covered with old crab cages, lines, trash, fire wood, and gasoline cans…  After seeing the bay, and now this, I completely expected to see Poppy step straight out with pipe in mouth and all!  We loved it.  Truly.  I decided within seconds that I would want to visit this bay again.  I simply do not have the necessary writing skills required to portray to you the “1800’sh” feel we gained from looking around.  I’m surprised that some of these boats didn’t have cannon’s – and would not have been shocked if they had.

April 6, 2006.

            We arose early the next morning and pushed out from Gig Harbor enroute to Port Orchard, located in Sinclair Inlet.  We traveled through Colvos Passage, between Vashon Island to the east and Point Richmond and Olalia to the West, ending at Point Vashon and Dolphin Point, then west around Blake Island through Yukon Harbor, and then North to Bainbridge Island into Sinclar Inlet.  The wind was out of the South by South West, at a brisk 10-15 knots.  We were actually able to sail the entire route, albeit having to tack and jib once we reached the inlet.  In a serial and unplanned state of luck, we were able to accomplish more sailing in two days then in the entire past summer on the Sound.  During the warmer months the Puget Sound seems only to get slight breezes, mostly from the west to the East.  While true for the “mild” summers, this is far from the course during the winter and early spring.  February-April had been very gusty, and we seemed to be benefiting from this.  Nesaru was built for open water sailing, and she was doing a wonderful job of it on all courses.  I started the trip concerned with the engine, but was content at this point having found a way to rig the throttle forward with a screw driver when necessary.  Another concern for us was now, under the increased winds, a Staysail which was beginning to look rather – old.  During the light summer we had no problems with her, but under the 15 knot winds she was beginning to fray.  Tape would have to do until I could get her under a needle and stitch.  On an up note, the Jib (number 1) was working very well and I can still see no flaws with the mainsail whatsoever.  With luck, the staysail will make it though this trip and we can replace her during the same time we purchase a new runner jib and Jackyard topsail for the lighter aired summers…

Port Orchard presented a dichotomy of things for us to do, more so then we could ever accomplish in one evening of day.  We found the city pleasant to walk through, with dozens of little shops, restaurants, and boutiques within easy walking distance from the marina.  However, despite the warm and cordial atmosphere in the dinners and stores we visited, we could not help but notice that everything seems a bit to old.  There were intermittent bond shops, or pawn shops throughout the waterfront.  This, coupled with a sense of a smokers lounge atmosphere, made the city less then we thought it could be, or less then it had been before.  While I do not want to dissuade people from visiting there and I do not want to cast a negative overtone to the stay, I would simply say that the downtown area needs a bit of a pick-me-up, are a fresh turn around the marry go round.  Across the bay from Port Orchard is Bremerton, home to one of the largest naval bases on the West Coast.  Luckily, there were several aircraft carriers, destroyers, and other suck vessels in port on our stay, and so we were able to benefit from those photo opportunities. 

            It seems that all coastal towns on the west coast are rich with their own lore, and so I would not want to be remise and leave Port Orchards out.  This excerpt was taken from http://portorchard.net/heritage/, “Port Orchard is the county seat of Kitsap. But it was not always the county seat, nor was it always called Port Orchard. Originally called Sidney, Port Orchard was platted in 1886 by Frederick Stevens, who named it after his father Sidney. The Illinois inventor, Sidney M. Stevens came west from DeKalb, IL for a family visit to the Long Lake area. He liked what he saw so much that he paid $900 for 88 1/2 acres with the intention of creating a town. The boundaries were similar to those today-Sinclair Inlet on the north, Mitchell Road on the east, South Street on the south and one block west of Short Street on the west. Early industry was primarily lumber and the loggers that frequented the nine saloons in town. The town of Sidney was incorporated September 15, 1890, and was the first in Kitsap County to be both platted and incorporated. Shortly after Sidney was platted, the Navy Department was looking for a site for a second naval installation on the Pacific Coast. Sidney residents took an active role in influencing the commission of the Port Orchard Navy Yard (now Puget Sound Naval Shipyard). A.H. Sroufe was a prime mover locally. He and Thomas Cline established the first newspaper in the county in 1886, calling it The Kitsap County Pioneer. Sroufe devoted weeks to touring with the Navy Commission and his persistence paid off when the Navy located the base in Orchard Bay over such communities as Seattle, Tacoma, Port Townsend, Bellingham (called Whatcom then), and others. Local industrial plants that came during early development of Sidney included two steam sawmills (one at the foot of Grant and one on Bay Street), two shingle mills (one powered by steam and one by water on Black Jack Creek), and a pottery and terra cotta plant (located at the foot of Pottery Hill). As times changed, all of these businesses faded away and disappeared. Many had manufactured supplies for building the shipyard and then supplied the yard with its labor force. Sidney's officials faced serious challenges from the beginning. In 1890, the town had no streets. It was divided into three sections by Pottery Creek and Black Jack Creek. Bay Street was flooded by the incoming tide twice a day. Since the town had no funds, a tax was put on saloons, polling and other privileges. Sidney Hill was graded; its dirt used for fill on part of Bay Street. A small trolley railroad was constructed from Rockwell Avenue over a salt marsh to the east side of Black Jack Creek. Later Rockwell Avenue was cut down and its sand used to fill the marsh. The same year the Navy officially dedicated the Port Orchard Navy Yard, Sidney had its first big fire. The town lost the original Sidney Hotel and a couple of residences on Prospect Street. In 1894, all buildings on both sides of Bay between Sidney and Frederick were burned down. When the county was first established, the county seat was placed in Port Madison. Sidney decided it wanted the county seat and at the general election in 1892, voters agreed since Sidney had such bright development prospects. In the middle of all this growth and occasional disaster was a political fight of major proportions. Harry Master man Orchard, ship's clerk attached to the flagship Discovery received credit for discovering the body of water that now bears his name. In December 1892, the people of Sidney requested the legislature and separately to the Post Office Department to change the name of their town to Port Orchard. The legislature refused. Charleston (now West Bremerton) had also requested the name of Port Orchard. Commander Morong requested the Navy yard mail be routed through the proposed Port Orchard post office. Through a series of confusions and misunderstanding by various departments about the geography of this region, the Port Orchard post office ended up in Sidney and the Charleston post office was in Port Orchard. It stayed this way for ten years until Will Thompson, editor of the Sidney Independent, went into State legislature (1902-03) and succeeded in restoring the Charleston post office to Charleston and the Port Orchard post office to Port Orchard. In 1903 the legislature changed the name of Sidney to what we know it as today...Port Orchard. The determination of the town was also noted in the location of the Veteran's Home. The legislature, in 1908 appropriated the monies for the home and the residents of Port Orchard dug into their personal cash reserves, bought the land and donated it to the State. Port Orchard's first water system was on Black Jack Creek in 1911. During the 1920's, this was converted to artesian for more and better water. Electric lights arrived in 1912. The rate maximum was $1 a month for each 16 candle power light. By 1915 Port Orchard had 266 telephones. The first school in Sidney was built in 1889. Numerous schools dotted the South Kitsap landscape and school consolidation was bitterly fought, but was achieved and the South Kitsap Union High School opened in 1922. Transportation depended on the water and in the early days was often by row boat until the introduction of steamer service in 1888. So many small boats dotted the waters they looked like a swarm of mosquitoes and thus got the name Mosquito Fleet.

April 5, 2006

So, on a calm Wednesday morning at 6 AM, with both a newly buffed gel coat, new coat of bottom paint, all the varnish with a new coat of Cetal light gloss, and the engine revved and ready to go (minus the throttle system), Nesaru slipped back into the water.  By 8 AM, my family and I were headed north out of Budd Inlet towards Boston Harbor.  It had been a painful 48 hours.  The work on the boat had taken its toll on my body and mind, as well as my family’s sanity.  However, Barb and I eased into a sense of quiet pleasure as we heard the engines soft purr.  Our first stop was to be the small town of Steilacoom, where we were to link up with an old friend I had worked with in Iraq while assigned to 5^th Battalion, 20^th Infantry Regiment during the assault on Samarrah and the movement north into Mosul and Tal Afair.  His name was Tony Wingfield, but I affectionately called him “Wing Ding.”  It took us longer to motor sail to Steilacoom then we had originally planned for.  So with the main sail up, we worked our way through Budd Inlet to the lighthouse at Boston Harbor near Dover Point, then through Dana’s Passage, past Hartsten Island, then through Drayton Passage South of the Devils Head and North of Johnston Point, between Key Peninsula and Anderson Island. We then traveled through Baic Passage south of McNeil Island into the Nisqually Reach to Steilacoom, where “Wing Ding” and his family met us at the Ferry Pier, and brought us to his home for a wonderful lunch his mother had prepared for us, who was visiting at the time.  We have to admit that the people we meet on these trips, as well as the friends and relationships we continue to perpetuate through them, is half the zeal we have for sailing.  The cups of coffee and conversations are as therapeutic as being on a brood reach in a cool breeze.

Steilacoom is a wonderful city, with easy access to the waterfront for boaters from the ferry peer.  The city has a rich heritage, and has maintained a very authentic “old town” feel to it.  A review of its history gives one a real taste for the ancient North West coast line.  This exert was taken from the webpage, http://www.steilacoom.org/index.html, “Steilacoom, known throughout the region for its preservation of "small town" ideals and community values, has grown considerably since its founding in 1854. Long before English explorer, Capt. George Vancouver sailed through the area in the late 1700's, a rich, Native American culture flourished. Northwest coastal tribes in this area relied on the plentiful cedar trees which provided bark for their clothing and building materials for their canoes and long houses.  Abundant supplies of fish, deer, roots, and berries provided ample food for a tribe that populated the area known as Steilacoom. During the pre-contact period, the Steilacoom’s were an independent tribe, inhabiting the Tacoma drainage basin. Six hundred Native Americans, known as the Steilacoom’s, lived in five bands within an area encompassing several lakes: Spanaway, Snake, Sequalitchew, Gravelly, American, and Steilacoom. Their main village on Chambers Bay was called "scht'ileq wem" later Anglicized as Steilacoom The Steilacoom’s, a Puget Sound Salish People, culturally and linguistically resembled the neighboring Nisqually tribe, and during the 1850's and later sometimes were identified with them in records.  When nearby Ft. Nisqually (near the site of present-day Dupont) was established in 1833 as a Hudson's Bay fur trading post, the Steilacoom people not only supplied furs and fish, but they also served as guides, shepherds, and skilled laborers. Later, similar cooperative relationships existed with the soldiers at Ft. Steilacoom.  Horses, which arrived in the area in the early 1800's, were rapidly integrated into the tribal culture. Early photos of road building on what is now Steilacoom Blvd., shows Steilacoom Indians with teams of horses working along side the settlers on the construction.  In 1854, the Steilacoom’s were among the signers to the Treaty of Medicine Creek, between the U.S. and nine named tribes. The treaty provided for the establishment of three reservations: Squaxin Island, Nisqually, and Puyallup. A reservation was not created for the Steilacoom’s.  At present time the tribe has 371 members, its nine member tribal council meets monthly, and continues to work on the tribe's status.  A tribal cultural center, which features displays about the tribe's history, is housed in the former Oberlin Congregational Church on Lafayette and Pacific. They offer special social programs for their elders and youths.”

After lunch Tony and his wife, Monika, accompanied us back to the boat, where Barb and I relinquished command to them, and begin instructions on how to sail an, “old gaffer.” With a wonderful bit of luck that could have only been a blessing from G-d, the wind picked up right as we cast off, and on a brood reach pushed us North through the Narrows East of Fox Island to Dalco Passage, then onward all the way to our next destination, Gig Harbor.  With 10-15 knots of wind, Tony was thrilled with the experience.  While I’ll admit under protest that Nesaru may not be able to cut as closely to weather as some of her more modern Bermudian sloop counterparts, no one can run as well as she when her sheets are out and the wind is on her back.  It was simply a perfect sail.  I could not help but wonder as we passed under the Narrows Bridge if life could really be any better.  The children were acting… controllable, we were with close friends, and Nesaru was handling wonderfully at a good 8-9 knots under full sail.  Once we reached Gig Harbor, we had to tack several times to position ourselves to enter its narrow bay.  This proved to be the most challenging part of the sail, as we were required to drop sail and start the engine simultaneously while using our new “Jerry Rigged” engine throttle system.  There was some yelling involved, but eventually we were able to enter the sheltered waters of Gig Harbor.  We docked at Arabella's Landing, a beautiful marina very close to elegant restaurants, coffee shops, antique stores, and other such small town oddities.  

                                    

   Gig Harbor’s history is perhaps as lush as is Steilacoom’s.  Here is an excerpt from http://www.gigharborchamber.com/history2.html, “Gig Harbor's history is a rich tapestry of pioneers in fishing, mills, farms, steamboats, ferries and bridges. The area was named in 1841 during the U.S. Exploring Expedition commanded by Captain Charles Wilkes. During a storm, several longboats and the Captain's “gig,” which is a small boat, sought shelter in a small bay. Later, Captain Wilkes named the haven that sheltered them “Gig Harbor.” In 1867, fisherman Sam Jerisich became one of the first white settlers on the shores of Gig Harbor. Others arrived from Norway, Sweden and Croatia and lived side by side with the Native American people. Commercial fishing and related industries, like boat building, dominated the local economy and rhythm of life in the community for more than 100 years. Several sawmills also operated in Gig Harbor from the 1880s through the 1950s. As the area thrived and population increased, steamboats began to carry passengers and freight around the Peninsula and to Tacoma in the 1880s. Car ferries began to transport automobiles between Gig Harbor and Tacoma in 1917. The first Narrows Bridge, linking Gig Harbor and the Peninsula to Tacoma, was completed in July of 1940. It soon became known as “Galloping Gertie,” “Galloping” because of its rocking motion in strong winds and “Gertie” because it was made of girders. The bridge collapsed in a windstorm just four months after completion. The existing bridge opened to traffic in 1950.” 

During our stay Tony and Monika escorted us to a mature but open dinning facility located within easy walking distance from the marina.  The food was exquisite, with certain warmth gained from the conversation that could only be obtained from two families who were accustomed to both the pains and exuberance of a knowledge of military life and deployments, as well as a shared interest in History and sailing.  Barb and I took delight in learning how to properly “taste” wine, and by then end of the evening we were less then sober.  We bid our friends Farewell (they had positioned a vehicle near the marina for a drive home) and we settled down into our little lady for a quiet evening.  All in all, a perfect first day.

Central Puget Sound

April 3-4^th, 2006

            There are many delights one can unexpectedly find when traveling on the pristine waters of the Puget Sound.  Granted, the perpetual bombardment of harbor seals will eventually become sin ominous with the coastline.  However, it is still heart warming to see nature living so closely with the people of the west coast in some form of harmony, although I would not be able to classify it exactly. Irrelevant, every time we have departed from Olympia headed North, we have felt this inexplicable calm sweep over us – this feeling of complete freedom I think you can only achieve from being in complete control of your own destiny, which is something commanding your own vessel provides in some form or another.  This sense of freedom, multiplied by the effects of the views provided by the Puget Sound waters, cities, and coastline, have made sailing here perhaps the highlight of our entire assignment to Fort Lewis, WA.  I would not have traded a single minute of my time on the waters here for anything in the world, particularly because everything we did here was done as a complete family.  This is my unexpected delight, then… freedom.  Freedom from a regime of a work place which perpetually demands timeliness and punctuality.  We found our joy in arriving late to each marina (partly the winds fault, and admitted partly our own), and taking as much time as we wanted in each once we were there.

            Well, our vacation to the Central Puget Sound Area started with placing the Nesaru, our 25 foot (36 with the sprit) gaff rigged Jarvis Newman Sloop on the hard at the Schurtz Marina Boat Works (www.shurtzmarine.com) located adjacent to the Swanton Marina in Olympia, WA.  Russ, the co-owner and senior manager, has proven to be more use to my wife and I then any other piece of reference material or book written.  His staff has always been more then fair and kind with our boat, and I know she appreciates it.  We had a choir list with demanded way more time then we had allotted for the work, with always seems to be the case.  We were optimistic we could accomplish all the listed tasks, however, and so with earnest begin immediately on the Morning of the April 3. 

We sanded and repainted the bottom paint, and buffed the green gel coat sides.  We also had decided to place another coat of varnish on all of the teak on the topsides and deck, as well as strip and place the first two coats of varnish on all of the remaining teak we had failed to hit on the previous season.  We had decided to use Cetal last year in order to save us some time and money, and have been very pleased with the results.  Knowing that many people complain of the orange glow this material leaves, we decided to use the CETAL LIGHT version of it.  Additionally, we have noted that if one places a coat of THOMSANS WATER SEALER on before the first coat of CETAL LIGHT, the teak takes on a very darker hew, and is very pleasing to the eye.  In actuality, it is almost indistinguishable from other teak products.   While I worked on the teak and gel coat, a close friend of mine, Chris Baker, had been enlisted to assist with some carpentry which needed to be completed.  With great care and diligence he created two new lazerate covers for the cockpit, replacing the old fiberglass covers.  He also tore out the old instruments, and placed a teak “plug,” or cover there which will later be decorated with a bronze statute of a mermaid and Sea Horse, which corresponds to the gimbaled compass cover with the Bronze Sea Shell Cover.  Once he had completed these projects, he went to work on a new Hailing Board and Name Plate for the transom of the boat, which I am sad to say, was the only project we were unable to complete prior to her launch. 

In addition to the teak and gelcoat work, we had to service the engine for the next coming year.  Two of Russ’s employ’s, Lenny and Jason (We love them both and just had to mention their names) replaced all three fuel filters in the engine, as well as the oil filter, and then followed it up with a complete oil change and check over.  Our most challenging enigma soon became the engine throttle.  We had noted that the throttle seemed to only push Nesaru to a mere 3-5 knots.  While trouble shooting the system, Jason noted that the system had been jerry rigged by the previous owner, and that the entire system would need to be replaced.  Both he and Russ attempted for several hours on the throttle in a desperate attempt to fix the system, or at least jerry rig it so that we could still leave on our vacation, all of which we were not charged for and was executed purely because Russ had given me his word we would still be able to go on our trip.  In the end, they were unable to fix the throttle.  However, they did show me how to manually increase the speed of the engine, and placed the necessary parts on order to fix it.  We were now able to push our 1977 13 H.P. Westerbeak to an intense 7 knots! – at least until the engine temperature reached 290 degrees!  Ahhh, the wows of being a boat owner.

In July of 2005, Barb, Sophia, and I visited Jarrwell's Cove and several other National Parks, in the South Puget Sound, WA.  Here is a picture of that first, faithful trip...

In 2003 it became apparent to my family and I that we had missed the boat, pun intended.  At some point in our lives, we had failed to capture the quintessential necessities of maintaining an enduring happiness. Although we had found contentment in steadily progressing careers, a stable family with two recent additions, and of course the standard retirement portfolio… we seemed to still be lacking the zeal of a life filled with memories created from adventures of our own coupled with quality family time.  Our lives were not holistic, and we desperately wanted to fill a growing void.  My profession had already taken us around the world, having returned from Korea in 2002, with a follow on assignment to Iraq in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom 2 and 3, we decided that now was the time to fill that void.  With earnest I began my search for the memories of my youth.  My father and mother are avid sailors, and I longed for the breath of fresh air that only the water and wind can provide.  Although reared on the more conventional Bermudian sloops, the classic tales of ocean lore drove me to find a vessel of more… “Antique lines.”  Before long I had found her, the Friendship Sloop.  Perhaps, in my humble opinion, the prettiest vessel man has ever made, we instantly fell in love.  It took quite some time before we were able to find one we could afford, but soon become the proud owners of “The Dolphin,” originally owned by Mr. and Mrs. Robbins, or E. Falmouth, MA.  She was built in 1977 by Jarvis Newman and Chase, with a fiberglass molding hull number 13 created by Jarvis Nemwan.  She was of the 25 foot Pemaquid II Group, Friendship Sloop Society Sale Number 178… and I loved her.  Upon our initial inspection in Boston, I vowed to care for her until the end of my days, tending to her needs mare faithfully than an overzealous father. This then, is her story.