Three Days in the Broughton Archipelago

I’d been driving around Vancouver Island for two and a half weeks, boat in tow, looking for chances to sail and take myself out of my comfort zone. I had come hoping to explore the Broken Islands group on the west side of the island, but heavy and prolonged rain had curtailed the trip. I had driven, instead, to Sproat Lake in the middle of the island where I’d camped overnight and had a whole day’s sailing on the mountain lake before the rain returned. Finally, I had bent to the inevitable and driven to a friend’s house to dry out and make a plan for my last week on the island.

I’d owned FIRE-DRAKE—an 18′ lapstrake open boat with lug yawl rig—for almost a year. Alex Zimmerman, her original owner—also her builder and designer—had sailed and rowed her the entire length of the inside coast of Vancouver Island. His story was inspiring, and while I didn’t have such high aspirations, I did, and still do, have hopes of adventure, exploration, and a sense of accomplishment.

Photographs by the author

By the time I had stepped the masts, stowed all the gear, and set up the cockpit tent, the rain was coming down hard again. I decided to cut my losses and find a room ashore for the night.

The boat is well suited for camp-cruising and I had already had some experience in her. From Bellingham, Washington, I had made several trips out to Sucia, an island on the north side of the San Juan archipelago. I had also sailed around Lummi Island to the west of Bellingham Bay. But this trip up to Vancouver was my most ambitious yet.

Now, drying out at my friend’s house in Courtenay I was feeling a little discouraged. Getting soaked by rain is a common theme of stories about Vancouver Island, but that didn’t provide me much solace. After all, it was only the end of August; it hardly seemed fair. I spent a day and a night in comfort, and awoke the second morning revitalized. I headed off to Telegraph Cove, farther up the island’s east coast, and arrived in the small town before dark. I packed the gear into the boat, slipped the boat into the water, and parked the truck. My plan was to sleep on board at one of the marina slips and then head out in the morning. But soon after I got everything set up, the clouds opened once again, and the rain came down in sheets. I sat nursing a beer at the little tourist bar, looking out over the harbor as the rain filled the air and made it hard to see across the bay. I imagined sleeping on the boat, waking up damp and cold and stiff, and decided to get a room for the night.

Through the narrow opening leading out of Telegraph Cove, I could see the islands of Broughton Archipelago on the far side of Johnstone Strait—where I would be headed the following day.

Telegraph Cove to Flower Island

By early morning, the rain had eased, and I rose to sort the boat and get underway. I could feel, as much as see, the tall trees looming out of the haze—other than a few quiet gulls that watched me as I passed them by, the trees were my only company. I rowed out of the cove in a light drizzle, but the moisture didn’t dampen my spirits. In the distance, the islands were veiled by a thick mist—in my mind I was venturing into a true wilderness. Out in Johnstone Strait, the 2-mile-wide channel that separates Vancouver Island from the Broughton archipelago, I raised my sails. There was a perfect breeze for a beam reach across to the northwest end of Hanson Island. Visibility still wasn’t the best, so I wanted to cross perpendicular to the channel to make the shortest route possible to the Plumper Islands, a small archipelago at the northwest end of Hanson Island.

I flew across Johnstone Strait. It was thrilling. The wind blew a steady 10 knots just abaft the beam, and the sea was smooth. The boat settled into a groove and almost sailed herself. A little tinkering with the lines and stowing the gear, and then I sat back. What a great way to start the trip; I couldn’t have been in a better frame of mind.

Roger Siebert

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When I reached the far side of the channel, approaching Weynton Passage between Hanson Island and Pearse Islands, I saw what looked like breakers ahead. “That can’t be right,” I thought. I fished out the iPad I was using for navigation from a drybag that wasn’t as accessible as I had imagined. Yes, indeed, there actually was a bunch of shallow rocks just in front of me. I fell off and jibed to run parallel to them, feeling lucky and slightly stupid for not having had my chart in front of me as I sailed. It planted a seed of nervousness in the pit of my stomach that would return off and on through the rest of the trip.

When I passed the last of the rocks, I turned toward the Plumper Islands, a group of wooded islands, which I would sail around en route to Blackfish Sound. As I neared the intersection where Weyton Passage meets Cormorant Channel at the entrance to Blackfish Sound, water that a moment ago had appeared just slightly confused, was suddenly very steep and very confused. FIRE-DRAKE was tossed from side to side and up and down. “Okay,” I thought, “a little exciting, but I have wind and I’m in no danger of jibing or getting caught in irons.” I was still on a reach as I struggled to control the boat, but then the waves pushed the stern up and off the wind and suddenly I was at risk of broaching. Cursing, I tugged on the push-pull tiller and got back on course. It was probably only moments, but time stretched until I was at last out of the confusion and in one piece, though my confidence was shaken.

As I rowed out of Telegraph Cove the next morning, the air was still damp, the clouds still low. Mist hung in the trees and along the foreshore, and I felt like an explorer venturing out into the wilderness.

As I caught my breath, I heard the staccato burst of a whale’s breath. Barely 50′ away and coming straight at me was a humpback whale. Normally, I try to keep my distance and stay out of the path of whales, but I had been unaware of this individual until it was too late. I clenched my jaw and held my breath as the whale slid away beneath me. I was thrilled, but once more my heart was pounding—the whale was many times larger than me and my boat, and even slight contact could have been disastrous.

To the north of Hanson Island, the wind dropped, but there was still enough for me to sail along slowly. Off to starboard were two more humpbacks surfacing near the shore. I glided by. This was why I was here!

When heard close by, the loud staccato puff of an exhaling humpback is exhilarating. Seabirds gather around the whales, looking to catch some of the fish forced up to the surface by the feeding pods.

I could have lingered and stayed to watch the spectacle, but I had places to be. I wanted to get to Flower Island in the early afternoon to avoid having to fight a current and to give me plenty of time to set up camp. I find it difficult to estimate just how far I can get in a day. Some days seem to go smoothly, and I can go 20 miles with little effort; other days I have to struggle for every inch. On this day, I hoped to make it 10 or 15 miles, depending on the wind and current.

I continued out into Blackfish Sound and turned closehauled, ready to sail across to Flower Island, an islet just 150 yards wide, off the southern tip of the much larger Swanson Island. It had been described on the BC Marine Trails website as a campsite with an easy landing and a view of Blackfish Sound; it seemed ideal for my first night. For a while I stayed close to shore, but the wind began to die so I started to row. I was being followed by a couple of well-fed-looking sea lions. I kept telling myself, “There is no danger, nothing to worry about. Who’s ever heard of a sea lion sinking a boat?” But I couldn’t shake a nagging fear, and while I’m sure their interest was simple curiosity, their presence raised the hairs on the back of my neck. They would surface in random places, sometimes next to me, sometimes behind, but always they would stare at me with giant inky black eyes. They’d quietly watch me pass and then submerge. They seemed to have no trouble in keeping pace with me. I rowed farther out into the sound and left them to their own business.

Mist and drizzle soon enveloped me, but as the wind picked up to a slight yet steady breeze, I put away the oars and started sailing again upwind with no reefs. The visibility dropped to less than 50′, forcing me to steer by compass. It was otherworldly. Except for the occasional sound of humpbacks breathing in the distance, it was eerily quiet, and I could see nothing but the boat and a circle of gray water around me. I was sailing in a bubble, and time stopped.

As I sailed past Hanson Island, two humpbacks surfaced and dove close inshore. I tried to stay away from the whales but shortly before this sighting, had found myself sailing on a head-on-course with a large humpback barely 50′ away. Fortunately, it dove and swam beneath me without incident.

After what seemed like an entire afternoon but was in fact just a short hour spent in a near-trance, I heard sounds of birds and waves, and the forested shore emerged as the mist lifted.

The breeze shifted and I was close to the southern shore of Swanson Island, downwind of Flower Island. I had tried to make it across before the tide turned but now, as I measured my progress against the trees that stood proud above a low bluff on shore, I realized I was punching into not only the wind, but also the ebb current. At least I was moving and didn’t have to row, but I was shivering with cold, even though I was already wearing all my warm layers: a thick wool sweater over wool long johns, my foulweather pants, and a wool knit cap. Yet, I was chilled still more as even the light breeze knifed through my clothes. I was making good time though, and I was right where I had hoped and planned to be by early afternoon. It was validating and filled me with a certain pleasure that despite my inexperience dealing with the region’s currents, my calculations and predictions had worked out.

I drew level with Flower Island. The current had grown stronger and started to overcome my ability to sail upwind. Several times I tacked into and away from the island, but I made little progress. I tried to head away on a long tack that would take me upwind of the island so that I could come back down on it, but even that didn’t work. I was becoming frustrated. Then, I saw kayakers paddle by close inshore, following the route I should take. They were paddling through a narrow passage between Flower Island and Swanson Island. I had avoided that route because I was nervous about short-tacking in a narrow channel, even though FIRE-DRAKE’s draft is minimal. But I sailed in, tucked behind Flower Island, dropped my sail, and followed them up the channel. It was the correct move and the origins of a mantra I held in my mind through the rest of the trip: “When in doubt, follow the kayakers.” At last, I came around the point to the beach on Flower Island where there were several marine-trail spots for camping, and rowed right up to the beach.

Within minutes of setting up camp on Flower Island the rain started again, coming down in sheets. It was the heaviest rain I experienced on the trip but fortunately was short-lived and soon after I took this photo the sun came out. As the tide fell, FIRE-DRAKE settled on the gently sloping gravel beach.

There wasn’t much of a bay in which to anchor, so I decided to beach the boat for the night and sleep on shore. For a few hours, I tended the boat: pushing it out with the falling tide, until it reached the point that, by my calculations, would put it at the edge of the water on the rising tide the next morning when I would want to depart. I found a place to camp for the night: a perfect little spot that had been terraced and made flat, surrounded by trees from which I could string my hammock and tarp. Low down, the branches were sparse and I had a clear view to the east toward islands that seemed to pile up over each other into the distance. FIRE-DRAKE was resting on the gravel beach just in front of my slightly elevated pitch. I set up the hammock and tarp, and tucked all my gear away beneath the shelter. I was just in time. I thought I had seen rain before, but now it truly opened up and dumped everything it had. It was the kind of rain in which you have to keep your face down for fear of drowning. It thundered against the top of the tarp, where it quickly made little puddles that built and flowed to the edge of the tarp to spill over all at once. But the tarp stood up to the torrent. I sat beneath it, dry, and watched as several paddlers emerged from the downpour and came ashore through the murky gray wall of water.

After the rain, the sun came out. Glorious! The transition was immediate, and though there wasn’t much heat in it, the touch of sun quickly warmed me. More kayakers came dribbling in, soaked but grateful to have made it, and in a while we had a full beach—there were only a dozen of us, but the beach is just about 10 yards wide with six campsites. I felt a little guilty that FIRE-DRAKE was taking up so much of the beach where the kayaks were landing.

In the middle of the night, I got up to check on the boat. It was high and dry. I was amazed by how far the tide had gone out. The range was only about 4–5′, but on the gently sloping beach it was significant. The moonlight reflected off the water and the stars hung low and bright. The water itself seemed to glow and shimmer, and in the dark FIRE-DRAKE looked like a spaceship surrounded by a galaxy of stars.

Beyond the landing beach, the geology of Flower Island was less welcoming, with a steep slope and sharp rocks that would make beaching out on a falling tide impossible.

Flower Island to Boat Bay

The next morning was bright and crisp, with vibrant greens and blues everywhere I looked. Every tree had a different hue. I occasionally dabble in watercolors, but the variations that morning would have stumped any attempt of mine to express what I saw in paint. The sky bled from a deep blue near the horizon to a lighter blue above. The air was cold in my lungs, but I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. There was a strong westerly breeze. My goal was to make it down to a small bay at the southwest tip of West Cracroft Island, a distance of some 8 miles—where I thought there would be some shelter from the west—or perhaps all the way to Boat Bay, also on West Cracroft, which would be sheltered for sure but was an additional 4 or 5 miles away.

I started out from Flower Island with a single reef, and quickly took in a second one. I was still a little gun-shy after the near-broach in the tide rip the day before. All morning the tidal current would be with me as I headed southeast. I flew down and out through Blackney Pass between Hanson and Harbledown islands. As I neared the main channel, I saw a tanker heading northwest toward me, so hung tight to the side. When it had passed, I turned onto a run and sat back; it was the kind of run that goes on and on until you have had all the fun and are ready to be done.

The wind was blowing straight down Johnstone Strait between Vancouver Island and West Cracroft, but I was reluctant to go too far—miles run downwind today would have to be reclaimed upwind tomorrow.

The end of the second day could not have been less like the first. As I arrived in Boat Bay, I had a following wind and the sky above was almost cloudless.

I reached my little bay protected by the Sophia Islands off the western end of West Cracroft, and it looked perfect. There was plenty of kelp to keep any surf down and a narrow entrance between two rocky points, but it was kind of windy. As I approached, becoming dubious of the landing’s suitability, I saw that the beach was covered in large sharp cobbles. I changed my mind and decided to press on to Boat Bay. But first I had to row hard to get out against the wind.

To reach Boat Bay I had to sail along an exposed bluff for at least 3 miles, then turn to duck into the bay. I was glad to be sailing downwind: there were large rolling waves running and the wind was blowing about 15 knots, more than I usually like. Going upwind would have been hard work and most likely cold and wet. I pulled into Boat Bay and found a protected bay with a sandy spot on the beach.

I rowed into Boat Bay, a protected bay with a sandy beach, looking south toward Vancouver Island.

A crowd of people watched me as I pulled up to the beach at the same time as a water taxi. As I reached the shore, the taxi captain started berating me: I needed permission to come here; I should go somewhere else. I was confused; the spot is listed on the BC Marine Trails website as having 12 campsites and is crown land. I replied that I wasn’t going anywhere but that I would stay anchored out in the bay if it was an issue. This seemed to mollify him a bit, and he pulled away with a load of kayaks.

After he’d gone, one of the other people told me I was allowed to be there but to avoid the orca watchers’ camp at the edge of the bay where a group of people were living and working. They were monitoring Robson Bight, an ecological reserve across the strait that is critical habitat for orcas. My informers, another crowd of kayakers, had been dropped off to go on a hike that would end by my first bay at the northwest end of the island. I was grateful for the explanation, and far more sympathetic to the taxi captain’s confrontational approach. I stretched my legs a little and then, having no desire to upset the locals, rowed out to anchor in the bay.

In Boat Bay, after an encounter with a less-than-friendly water-taxi operator, I decided to sleep on board. After a peaceful night, the day dawned bright, sunny, and calm.

The night was dry, but the breeze cut right through my little boat tent. Even in my 20°-rated down sleeping bag I was cold. I built a little wind block with my toilet bucket and drybag, and once more put on all my clothes. Finally, I fell asleep.

Boat Bay to Telegraph Cove

I awoke mid-morning. It was another crisp and sunny day. The wind had dropped, but later it would be perfect to sail back without a reef. I did my morning stretch routine—or as much as I could in my small and rather messy boat. I had plenty of time; the current wouldn’t be going my way until the afternoon, so I stayed at anchor in the warming sun, and spread everything out: my tent, my clothes, my sleeping bag, my gear. I let the sun into all the nooks and crannies so that everything could dry out while I relaxed and drank coffee and wrote in my journal. Then I heard voices. A crowd of kayakers paddled by; they were going my way!

“When in doubt, follow the kayaks,” I remembered. “If they can go, I can as well.” I had originally planned to stay out another night, but between my coldness and dampness, as well as a need to get back to prepare for a new job, I decided to see if I could get back that day.

Waking in Boat Bay to a sunny day with little wind and time to wait for a favorable current, I decided to spread out all my gear to dry. Later I would take down the cockpit tent so the sun could get into all the nooks and crannies of the boat.

I had been worried about having to beat all the way back, but the wind veered just enough that I could make it three-quarters of the way to Telegraph Cove on one tack. I was able to lock the tiller down and sit and watch the boat sail itself for hours. After that I just needed a few short tacks to get into the marina.

About a mile from Telegraph Cove a medium-sized cruise ship with a French flag came down the channel. As they passed me by, I saw the bridge crew come out and look at me through their binoculars. I waved and watched them go.

I had some moments around a point where I was in a wind shadow and had to row between wind spots. I tried rowing with the sail up—in my mind it was akin to motorsailing—but the boom whacked my head right on my ear.

The wind on my last day could not have been kinder. With no reefs in the sail, a single tack took me three-quarters of the way up Johnstone Strait from Boat Bay to Telegraph Cove. I was able to tie-down the helm and watch FIRE-DRAKE sail herself.

At last, I pulled into Telegraph Cove, sailed right up to the entrance, and then smoothly dropped the sails to row into the boat ramp. As I stepped ashore, I thought about the days behind me: I had struggled with the weather issues, the currents being sometimes with me, sometimes against, and my own lack of rowing stamina. I had felt ridiculous at times, working so hard yet making no progress. But on the other hand, using wind, tide, and muscle, I had traveled independently around the edge of the Broughton archipelago. With no engine available, I had been forced to think ahead and use my skills to their utmost. I had also learned where my skills were lacking.

I had come back a day early, but I was satisfied. It was late afternoon as I threw all the boat gear into the truck, tied the boat down, and hit the road. Four hours later I was pulling into Campbell River where I planned to spend the night. I looked out over the water and saw the French cruise ship that had passed me earlier in the day. A warm sense of satisfaction came over me as I found my place for the night and felt my exhausted bones and muscles relax.

Merlin Clark-Mahoney grew up sailing on dinghies with his dad. He’s been a sea scout, a merchant mariner, a tall-ship sailor, and now is exploring Washington and British Columbia by small boat.

If you have an interesting story to tell about your adventures with a small boat, please email us a brief outline and a few photos.