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Best Offer. Buy It Now. Classified Ads. Item Location see all. US Only. North America. Delivery Options see all. Free International Shipping. Show only see all. Returns Accepted. Completed Items. Sold Items. Authorized Seller. Authenticity Guarantee. More refinements More refinements Shop by Featured Refinements. See All - Shop by Featured Refinements. Shop by Brand. See All - Shop by Brand. R ollin Thurlow has been building and restoring wood-and-canvas canoes for 38 years.
This spring, Rollin took a short break from his shop, the Northwoods Canoe Company in Atkinson, Maine, to paddle the Allagash Wilderness Waterway in celebration of its 50 th anniversary. Back when he designed the Atkinson Traveler, Rollin began with what he most respected, the working boats that E.
This special commemorative Atkinson Traveler was built to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Allagash Wilderness Waterway. As Rollin turned to his own design, he realized that a shorter vessel that maintained the versatility of the Whites would provide a novel addition to the field of wood-and-canvas wilderness tripping hulls.
The shallow arch also reduces wetted surface�and the drag associated with it�making the canoe faster. Garrett Conover, a veteran North Woods guide, has paddled tens of thousands of miles, and much of it at the helm of an Atkinson Traveler. According to Garrett, the trick in designing a wilderness hull is to find just the right balance of opposing design parameters.
A high functioning design must excel at all aspects of wilderness travel, including flatwater, whitewater, downstream and upstream. Garrett explains that the game changer for a tripping hull is its ability to mesh high load capacity with superb handling, and notes that such a balance is very difficult to achieve; Rollin does so by the placement of compound curves in and around the quarters whereby the hull masterfully combines the speed attributes of a sharp entry with a sudden flare to accommodate load capacity as well as add buoyancy that keeps rough water on windswept lakes and whitewater on fast moving rivers from filling the boat.
Upstream travel was an essential skill when traveling in Northern Maine until the midth Century when roads became more prevalent. Nothing poled as well as the Whites and the Atkinson Traveler carries on this tradition.
It portages well in any country. The Deep Traveler is the design of choice for those, like Conover, who routinely head out on self-supported trips for weeks on end.
Elisa Schine worked as an instructor at a wilderness canoe camp before landing at Northwoods Canoe Company. Rollin, who celebrated the thousandth canoe to pass through his shop in , had recently finished a special commemorative Atkinson Traveler.
The stripes of its tiger-maple thwarts morphed from light to dark and undulated as I move around the boat. The rails were made from Baxter State Park spruce. The gunwales of the standard-issue Atkinson Traveler are also spruce, though many choose a mahogany, cherry, or walnut outwales. If a hardwood is chosen for the outwales, it is also used for the thwarts, decks, and hand-woven caned seat frames�otherwise ash is the standard wood used.
The weave of 10 mildew- treated canvas is filled with an oil-based sealer and usually painted in its entirety; many opt for the traditional finish of shellac below the waterline, which slides over rocks and is easier to maintain than paint. Brass stem bands protect the white-oak stems at the bow and stern.
The heart-shaped decks and hand thwarts date back to the earliest wood-and-canvas canoes, as does the hollowing out beneath the deck. Rollin first observed these features while restoring E. Gerrish boats and was drawn to their aesthetics. He likes to include hand thwarts to give paddlers a ready handhold for carrying that dissuades them from using the deck to lift the canoe. Rollin has sold about sets of plans for the Traveler and highly recommends that homebuilders take the time to build the requisite mold�a sturdy hull form akin to a very heavy strip canoe.
Steel bands are attached crosswise over the mold and used to clench the tacks that fasten the planks to the ribs. Builders will need to be set up for steaming ribs, and a jig is necessary to bend the stems. The average homebuilder takes years to complete a wood-and-canvas canoe. The varnished cedar ribs and planking radiate warmth in the morning sun. The hull is stable when it needs to be as well as agile within the confines of the small pond.
After planting my knees against the sides of the canoe around where the half ribs end, I warned Elisa that I was going to wobble the boat. I rocked it gently, then more aggressively. The initial stability is not as solid as secondary, but the boat is such a comfort to paddle that I scarcely thought of stability for the remainder of the outing. When I poled the Traveler solo it held a line, even with the bow unweighted and thus a tad high.
Rollin has a long history of sharing his designs and hires young builders so he can pass along his knowledge. Rollin mentioned that Becky Mason has paddled a Traveler. Becky, the daughter of legendary paddler and filmmaker Bill Mason, is a highly accomplished paddler and filmmaker in her own right, and has introduced thousands to canoeing through her teaching.
And you get maneuverability�it spins on a dime. Donnie Mullen is a writer and photographer who lives in Camden, Maine, with his wife Erin and their two children. He wrote about paddling the entire length of the Northern Forest Canoe Trail in our February issue. Plans and a variety of kits are also available. I wanted to learn how to sail, and was looking for a boat I could easily manage singlehanded and that had enough room for a few friends to join in the fun. I had no previous boatbuilding experience, and while I liked the looks of lapstrake, I thought it might be little overwhelming for a first build.
After many hours of research I settled on the Glen-L 15, a sloop-rigged daysailer. The plans for the Glen-L 15 come with a detailed instruction booklet and full-sized patterns for the frames, transom, stem, and breasthook assembly. I chose vertical-grain white oak for the frames, sheer, and chine logs. Spruce and mahogany are also recommended in the plans. All the wood that I would finish bright was sapele. It goes together quickly, even for a first-time builder, and is easy on the budget.
After fairing and applying fiberglass and three coats of epoxy, the hull was ready for its finish. Paint is the most common finish and recommended in the plans, but I wanted a more durable finish that would require less maintenance. After doing a lot of research, I decided to give gelcoat a try. I ended up with a beautiful finish, and after two years there are no chips, no cracks, and no signs of failing.
The ample seating and uncluttered cockpit of the Glen-L 15 is well suited for introducing family and guests to sailing. After the hull has been painted, it gets turned right-side up for the remainder of the construction. The two arched beams that support the foredeck need only minimal fairing to prepare them for the marine-grade mahogany plywood decking.
The coaming is steam-bent, then temporarily fastened into place with clamps and screws. After I scribed the designed shape, I removed the pieces, cut them to size, and reinstalled with epoxy and screws for final trimming and sanding.
The seats, floorboards, and rubrails are mostly left up to the builder. I designed the seats and floorboards to be removable to make any future cleaning and refinishing easier. I built the floorboards in a similar fashion to make them in sections easily removed for cleaning and refinishing. I milled my mahogany trim for the sheer and coaming. There were no instructions on the plans for a rubrail and trim to cover the screws holding the deck at its perimeter, so I made a cap and half-round to cover the sheer.
For mounting an outboard motor, I fastened pieces of mahogany to the transom to take the wear and tear of the motor mount. The boat is rated to take an outboard up 7. The pronounced flare in the forward sections lifts the bow over waves and throws the spray to the sides, keeping it out of the cockpit.
A fter painting the cockpit and putting nine coats of varnish on all of the brightwork, it was time to think about spars. The plans offered a few options for making the mast. Instead of the hollow plywood mast, I chose to build the solid mast with the sail groove routered into the aft face. I used vertical-grain Douglas-fir 2x4s scarfed and laminated. The mast has the classic teardrop cross-section and is then square below the gooseneck.
The boom is rectangular in shape, and there is just one method for building it detailed in the plans. I ordered the rigging from Glen-L; it was all very high quality and each piece came with diagrams and descriptions to facilitate assembly.
Throughout the build I called Glen-L for guidance, and their staff was patient and knowledgeable and answered any questions I had. I practiced rigging the boat a few times, and I could get the mast up and the sails ready to raise in about a half hour. The mast is pinned through at the maststep, allowing the mast to pivot up and down.
I found it quite manageable to get the mast up solo. The forestay holds it up, and then the two side stays brace it for sailing. A lighter aluminum mast would be easier to handle, but in my opinion the beauty of the wood mast is worth the little extra effort. At the launch ramp for the first time, the boat slid off the trailer with ease. I was pleased by how effortlessly she glided through the water. Later the wind picked up, and we had a wonderful first sailing experience. When tacking, the bow swings smartly through the eye of the wind and is unlikely to get caught in irons.
I learned a lot that first summer, sailing every chance I got. The centerboard is weighted and raised and lowered with a pulley system. When running downwind I found with pulling the centerboard up I could get more speed and still feel stable and in control. When turning from running downwind into a beam reach, I just need to remember to lower the centerboard well before I turn or the lateral pressure will not allow the board drop freely, especially in strong wind.
The arrangement is great for solo sailing and when taking guests out who just want to enjoy the ride rather than tend sheets. This makes navigating and taking care of passengers easy. The boat points high when working to windward. If I trim the sails properly, the Glen L holds a course very well on all points of sail and has a near neutral helm�I never have to fight the tiller.
When setting the mast rake I was careful to stick to the plans and get it right. I believe this was an important factor to creating a balanced helm. The winds on my home waters�Shawnigan Lake�can change direction quickly, and large wakeboard-boat wakes makes for a challenging yet fun experience. I bought an electric trolling outboard for those lazy summer evenings on the lake; all the kids take turns playing captain.
When the winds are down, the Glen-L 15 can easily be used as a runabout or for fishing. The boom and the foot of the jib are both set high, providing a clear view forward and eliminating the need to tell passengers to duck when coming about. The Glen-L 15 has lived up to my expectations and has been a great boat for learning to sail in a variety of conditions. It usually draws a crowd and a lot of compliments and questions wherever I go. My next project is to design sleeping arrangements for two on either side of the centerboard trunk for camp cruising.
Kelsey Johnson was born and raised in Victoria, British Columbia, and grew up waterskiing, surfing, and snow skiing on Vancouver island. A journeyman carpenter by trade, he and his brother own a construction company and build custom homes in Victoria and surrounding areas. W e had arrived at Port Townsend, Washington, a few days before the start of the Race to Alaska R2AK so we would have a chance to make any repairs after our sail there from Gabriola Island in British Columbia, and to watch the fleet arriving.
Our mile pre-race trip from Gabriola had been a success, and we felt good about our chances of winning the race�until the other boats started showing up.
Although we launched on the scheduled day of April 12, many rig details remained unfinished. The 6-week pre-race trial we intended to do was reduced to about 6 day trips. This little beach on the northwest corner of Valdes was part of one of them. Early in the morning of June 4 we made our final preparations in the pre-dawn light, and then backed out of our slip.
We were nearly cut in half by a racing shell tearing out of the darkness. Having narrowly avoided being skewered before even leaving the harbor, we hoisted our jib and sailed out past the hundreds of people lining the shores. The one-minute gun went off, and we had to put our oatmeals down, raise the main, and sail back up to the line. We crossed right at the gun, ahead of the fleet of nearly 60 boats charging down on top of us.
We were at the head of the pack�for a few seconds, at least, until the multihulls blew past us as if we were standing still.
Catamarans, trimarans, and proas left clouds of blowing spray where their boats used to be. The fleet was soon drawn out into two groups: the fast sailers, and the rest of us. It was blowing 15 knots out of the west, and we were happily sailing upwind at 6 knots, well behind the leaders, but upwind of many of the others. We rowed into Victoria harbor at the finish of the first leg, somewhere near the middle of the fleet.
Throughout the trip, weather conditions never remained constant for very long, and switching between rowing and sailing we often found ourselves struggling into and out of our dry suits.
We noticed a small red speck growing larger on the horizon behind us. By the time we figured out what we were looking at, Team Soggy Beavers, in drag, had beat us to dock.
We covered 40 miles in just over 6 hours, pretty good considering 18 teams had already dropped out. A fter a three-day layover, the race to Ketchikan, Alaska, began. The morning was sunny and windless, and when the starting horn blew, we made good time getting away and steadily rowed past other boats; by the time we cleared the harbor, there were only two ahead of us.
We kept rowing until we saw the rest of the fleet come round the point under sail. We raised our main, but a keelboat and a catamaran were bearing down on us under spinnakers. We shipped the oars and pulled up our big orange kite.
The breeze was slowly building from 5 knots, but the big boats sailed past us as we entered Haro Strait. Team SeaRunner, a catamaran with a crab-claw rig and pedal-powered propellers, had taken an early lead and were making for the San Juan Island side of the channel. The breeze held and we were making about 5 knots, broad-reaching north in the bright June sunshine toward North Pender Island and closing on Team Grin in their Etchels keelboat.
The chase was on until we were just drawing abeam of them, when they bore away for Active Pass, no doubt looking for wind. It was forecast to blow up overnight, and we chose to stay in the more protected waters of Trincomali Channel.
With no competitors in sight, the boat sailing nicely, and the golden sun nearing the mountains of Vancouver Island, I went down for a nap. The night sky was full of stars, and the wind had gone. Dylan and I rowed between the puffs through the middle of the night while Mitch slept.
Even with the light of a nearly full moon, we still managed to row into a tree with a rootball, and later had to fend off a beach with an oar when the shadows tricked our depth perception. After gaining no ground on two tacks off Wallace Island, we took to the oars again. Mitch and Dylan traded places, and as the sky in the east glowed pink, we rowed along Galliano Island. The tracker showed that our labors of the night had gained us little. Team Boatyard Boys had spent the night in a small bay and were now only 2 hours behind us, making 3.
We doubled our efforts, and soon we were at Polier Pass. The wind, forecast to blow up overnight, had never materialized, so we decided to go through the pass to look for a breeze in the open Strait of Georgia. As the flooding tide sucked us through, we struggled in the light wind to avoid a long row of short, steep, standing waves that extended out toward the mainland.
A mile out the breeze filled in, but it was from the northwest and counter a northward-flowing current of the strait. Seeing a patch of flatter water about a mile wide along the shore of Valdes, we decided to short-tack up the coast.
I took this opportunity to try to sleep. About an hour later I was awakened by water coming over the gunwale. I was quickly out of bed and on the weather rail. The GPS told us there was a small channel inside the reef in front of us, so we tried to take advantage of what little protection it offered.
Short-tacking close to a lee shore, we aimed the boat at the foaming pile of angry waves where the channel was supposed to be. Squeaking through with large brown rocks visible just below the surface, inches from either side, we were then able to tack away from that horrible sight. Nearing our Gabriola Island homeport of Silva Bay, we struggled to sail up around Breakwater Island, the southernmost of the Flat Top group that would offer us protection.
Pinching as hard as we could Mini Wooden Sailboats Favors On to get round the point, we were just about clear, when team Uncruise Adventures came blasting over top of us, stealing our wind. Once again we found ourselves clawing off an uncomfortably close lee shore.
We aimed for the nearest sandy beach on Gabriola, and within minutes were high and dry. We were hardly ashore more than 5 minutes, when we were surrounded by a group of our hometown friends. A half dozen had been watching our track on their computers, and raced to us by water and land to see what was wrong. We told them our story, then made our way into Silva Bay to gather our wits, make some essential adjustments to our reefing system, and wait for the wind to ease.
It never did. Our check of the tracker showed that most of the other teams were also holing up. A few were just going back and forth out in the strait, moving fast but making no headway. We stayed the night, constantly checking the tracker and the weather report. The teams that had stayed out were battling knot winds.
The wind rattled the treetops around us, and we hoped everyone would make it through the night. The three or four boats in the front had extended their lead, while most of the boats near us had stayed put.
Those who had stayed out in the strait had been punished. With their boat nearly awash, they were slowly being driven down on to the Fraser River delta. Shortly before dawn they radioed the Coast Guard and abandoned their vessel for the safety of the rescue cutter. We spent the day chewing our nails, checking the marine weather, checking the tracker, driving to the windward end of the island to confirm the conditions, and hiding from people we knew in the grocery store.
Late in the afternoon on the third day, the wind was still blowing 30�35 knots where we were, but all the weather stations in the area were reporting moderate winds of 20�25 knots. In a momentary lull we cast off and sailed for Sechelt. It was rough, but manageable, and we had an exciting sail across the Georgia Strait. When the last of the light disappeared from the sky, we still had a couple hours of sailing ahead to reach the nearest bay.
The white wave crests were all we could see, and when we sailed into Seargent Bay at 2 a. Spreading our mats out on the dock, we would get up at first light to continue.
Well, we all overslept, and we were surprised to see a man and woman coming down the ramp from the house. They had heard of this race, and instead of giving us a thrashing, they invited us up for breakfast. Fortified for our journey, we set sail once again. The wind was much lighter and we enjoyed the day, sailing across to Sabine Channel where we tacked in the sunset glow between Lasqueti and Texada islands. We pulled into a nice bay at the top of Lasqueti, unloaded our gear on shore, anchored the boat, made a fire and dinner, and turned in.
After the three days of high winds that had kept us pinned down in Silva Bay, the knots of breeze that took us west across the Strait of Georgia from Sergeant Bay to Lasqueti was a welcome respite. We tried moving the boat to the water, but the beach was so flat that even if we moved it halfway, it would only get us floating an hour or so sooner.
The wind was back up again, and in no time the north end of Texada was off our starboard beam. The forecast was for 25�30 knots of wind to continue through the night, so we sailed for Comox. The waves were big, but long, and we were getting used to this kind of sailing.
Even still, with four reefs tied in the main and the setting sun shining through mountains of green water, we were relieved to round Goose Spit an hour or two after dark and sail into the Comox marina under the orange glow of sodium lamps. We dropped our main just inside the breakwater and soon had our beds unrolled under some trees in the park. The wind had increased overnight, and in the morning a seafood festival was setting up not far from us in the park, and their tables and decorations were rolling across the field like a bunch of tumbleweeds.
A check of the tracker on the iPad showed us that our dreams of winning this race were over. We were barely a hundred miles into the race, with left to go. It was too windy to go sailing, so we spent the day loitering. A friend took us to his house for the night where we had dinner and slept in his yard. The next morning we were up at first light, determined to carry on.
There were still a few fast boats nearby that would be fun to race against, and after all, this was a race to Alaska, dammit, and we were going all the way! During the run along the Vancouver Island coast from Comox to Campbell River, I took a nap up in the bow, and noticed when I awoke the spare rudder was being used. One of the blades had drifted off, and no one had noticed it go. We had missed our window to get through the Narrows on this tide, so we stopped in Campbell River.
An hour later and we were back in the boat, headed for a bay close to the Narrows to wait for the next ebb to carry us through. We found a fish farm, and thinking their floats looked more inviting than a night on the hook, we tied up to one, at the bottom of the ramp that led ashore. We went up to the little house at the top of the ramp, and knocked on the door.
The guy who answered was very interested in what we were doing, let us tie up for the night, and invited us to sleep in the three spare bunkbeds. We tucked ourselves in early so we could get a predawn start to catch the ebb through the narrows. We cast off in darkness.
As we sailed off the dock, we could see team Excellent Adventure beating along about a half mile ahead. We chased them through the Narrows and up Discovery Passage into the freshening knot breeze. As we rounded Chatham Point into the notorious Johnstone Strait, the scattered clouds had disappeared, the sun was out, the breeze had settled into a steady 10 knots, and by the time we passed Blind Channel at the bottom of Thurlow Island, we were certain that we were gaining on Excellent Adventure, but they suddenly veered hard to starboard, toward Knox Bay.
So we sailed on, working the eddies along the shore, and doing well against the current. Although funds were tight for this project, we made getting excellent dry suits a priority. Mitch had gone down for a nap, and Dylan was settling in on the trapeze as we passed Kelsey Bay, when we spotted a white line on the horizon. It was approaching rapidly, so we called Mitch on deck and tied in a reef. It hit us like a wall. The wind doubled instantly, and the lazy current became a churning frenzy.
We tied in the second reef, but it was still building, and within minutes we were skipping the third reef and tying in the fourth. Still overpowered, we pinched as close as we could and let the current sweep us along past the top of Hardwicke Island.
The waves were rising and falling beneath us and on top of us. Desperate to get out of this maelstrom, we steered for the channel between two small islands, Clarence and Yorke. Dropping the main completely, we turned and ran. A sandy beach on a falling tide sounded like just the respite we needed.
The beach on Hardwicke was not sand, but rocks, between fist and head size. The moment we reached shore, Mitch ran up the beach and while Dylan and I struggled to hold the boat in waist-deep water, Mitch was frantically trying to peel his off dry suit to relieve a bout of explosive diarrhea.
By the time he staggered out of the bushes, we were trying to haul the boat ashore. We tried stuffing logs under it to slide on, but the waves would wash them away before we could drag the boat onto them. Dylan found a large cooler on the beach. He tied the bow line to it, filled it with rocks until it was just floating, dragged it out into neck-deep water, and sank it with a final armload of rocks. This would be enough to keep the boat out of the breaking surf.
After tying a pair of stern lines to logs above the high-tide mark, we were ready to light a fire and dry ourselves off. Mitch had chosen the only flat, open spot around to do his business, so we had to make camp down the beach, underneath a low-hanging cedar. The boat would start to dry out around 6 a. We lay down in the deep moss and listened to the wind rip through the big cedar branches above.
There was nothing to be done about it, so I crawled back into my bag and slept in till late. Once the sun was high in the sky, we went down to the boat to find it high-centered on a large rock. The Kevlar-sheathed bottom had held up, and a little paint would put it right again, but we had to spend the day waiting for the tide to float the boat. The farther north we went, the less hospitable the beaches were. A beach line off the bow, and a haul back to an anchor off the stern was our most common form of mooring.
Our third, and last, handheld waterproof VHF radio had stopped working, so we were unable to listen to the marine broadcast. The wind had held steady since the previous day, at what we later learned was around 40 knots. As we came in, we dropped the anchor over the stern, and paid out the rode until we could unload our gear on the beach. Once everything was ashore, I hauled the boat back out to the end of its bow line, tied off the stern, zipped up my dry suit, and swam ashore.
We lit a fire, made dinner, and laid our sleeping bags down among the scrub pine along the shore. While I was washing the breakfast dishes, a sailboat motored close by; I flagged it down and a man got aboard a dinghy and came to help us.
I had a cell phone and coverage, but none of us had a credit card, so Mitch had to call his sister in New Brunswick to get her credit-card numbers.
We made the purchase; a boat working the fish farms would deliver the radio on their usual rounds. Now all we had to do was wait. That was made easier by the fact that a weather station less than a mile away was still reporting winds of 30�40 knots. The next morning though, the wind had eased to a reasonable 10 to 15 knots, the tide was favorable, and we could see on the tracker that the other teams near us had been on the move since first light.
Apparently the farm we had been directed to had been moved a couple years ago. With this critical piece of equipment delivered, we set our sights for Port Neville, about 10 miles to the north. The old store and post office had been closed for years, but we tied up to the dock and went up to the house to see who was home. The friendly gray-haired people who lived there had company in the kitchen, but were happy to let us fill up our water jugs from their garden hose.
The sun was out, but a strong flood would be against us for the next couple hours. When the current eased, we cast off once again. It was well after noon by the time we were underway in earnest, but we covered 18 miles and pulled into Boat Bay not long after dark. Scrambling around on the bluffs with our headlamps, searching for a secure place to tie up, we came across a handful of tent platforms and a small cabin. The door was open, and reasoning this was park property, we let ourselves in and unrolled our mats on the bunks.
I had big plans of documenting our trip with photos and videos, providing plenty of updates for fans and sponsors, but in reality we had a hard time keeping our batteries charged. When things did get exiting, we were too busy sailing the boat to mess around with dead batteries and tiny digital storage chips. Fortunately I managed to capture a little of the fun we had on our way from Alert Bay to Sointula.
We pulled our anchor early the next morning, but the wind had died, and we spent most of the day rowing 15 miles to Alert Bay in a light drizzle. The boiling current pushed us around as we rowed through Pearse Passage, and by the time we drew close to Cormorant Island, we were pulling hard upstream in the pouring rain.
Two people riding bicycles near the shore waved at us, gesturing us to follow them along the road that paralleled the beach. Pulling for all we were worth, we inched past the moss-covered pilings that held up the remains of former fish-processing plants.
Our welcoming party showed us which dock to tie to and gave us two jars of canned salmon. They were fans of the race and had followed us on the race tracker. There was a restaurant a couple of blocks away, so we got some burgers for lunch. Our constitutions restored, we put our dry suits back on and prepared to head back out into the pouring rain. Coming out the door after us, the cook brought us a freshly baked loaf of bread.
The rain eased, a light breeze sprang up from the south, and for the first time since the start of the race, 11 days ago, we hoisted our spinnaker. For about 30 minutes. It was only 5 miles to Sointula on Malcolm Island, but we were relieved when we finally began rowing past all the derelict marine railways that lined the bay. Our friend Nate lived on the island, and when we tied up to the government dock he was there in his truck to meet us.
He took us home, let us spread our wet gear to dry by the woodstove, cooked us a big spaghetti dinner, put up his couches for us to sleep on, and took us back down to the dock in the morning. I t turned out to be another day of light, variable headwinds, with periods of rain.
Tucked behind Robinson Island, it looked to be protected from any winds. The light was getting dim, and the overcast sky was heavy with the rain that would soon be falling hard and fast.
As we came around the corner of the Augustine Islands, we saw a new galvanized steel-grate dock on plastic floats. A little cabin not far down the beach was just visible through the trees. The trail to the cabin followed the shore and some recent clearing of brush along the edge of the forest revealed the remains of an old settlement.
A plastic pipe carried water from a well on the hillside to a laundry sink on the porch; firewood was stacked under the house. The door was open. We lit a fire in the stove and made dinner, and went to sleep listening to the rain thunder down on the roof. The next morning we packed up our stuff and tidied the cabin. We were just casting off our lines when an aluminum boat roared into the bay and coasted up to the dock.
They were glad it had kept us warm and dry. They were here to survey the area of the old settlement we had seen traces of in Mini Wooden Sailboats Favors 50 the forest and along the shoreline. It had been a village for centuries, with plank houses and boardwalks on pilings until when the department of Indian affairs made it necessary for everyone to move to a reservation in Port Hardy.
Many preferred the old life, however, and some moved back to their traditional village. Now, 40 years later, people still want to move back; elders want to return to the village they had grown up in. This new dock and the survey were the first steps in that direction. We thanked them and sailed out into a sunny day and we once again set a course straight into the wind. T he race had been won for over a week, and all we knew of our closest competitors was that they had last been seen days ago.
We were on an expedited cruise at this point, and the farther we sailed from Port Hardy, the farther we sailed from our last chance to quit this race. We had been sailing straight upwind under quadruple- reefed main for nearly two weeks in an open boat; many other boats had long since thrown in the towel.
We could have gone home, and been pleased with having come this far. The boat had held up beautifully, we knew what to expect from it, and with the pressure of competition more or less removed, we had an opportunity to take the time to explore this beautiful coast.
After beating past the Richard Islands in Millar Passage, we ducked into Shelter Bay and found a nice hole to anchor in behind some islands just off Westcott Point. Once we pulled in, we could see that the beach was sandy, and the tide falling, so we decided to let the boat go aground for the night.
After a short walk through the old-growth forest to watch the sun disappear into the Pacific Ocean, we lit a driftwood fire to help keep away the mosquitoes, laid our bedrolls in the sand, and went to sleep under the bright starry sky. The boat was floating when we woke at sunrise the next morning, so we quickly packed and pushed off. The wind was too light for sailing and a thick-but-bright fog had settled in, so we rowed for a couple hours with the open ocean swell gently lifting us on its glassy surface.
Somewhere around the Storm Islands the breeze began filling in, so we held our tack toward Japan, ghosting out to sea in a circle of visibility yards across. Preceded by a deep rumble, a southbound tug with a barge-load of logs appeared out of the mist in front of us.
We tacked back toward the land, when all of a sudden, 50 yards ahead, there was a white line of ocean swells breaking against the bluffs of Cape Caution. We quickly came about, looking for sea room. Eventually the fog lifted and we set a course for Table Island at the mouth of Smith Sound. Considered by many an environmental disaster that was abandoned by those responsible for it, the reclamation by the surrounding forest has a certain undeniable beauty to it.
Sailing into the channel between Table and Anne islands, we found another sandy beach on a falling tide on Anne Island, and ran ashore. Our boat was moored on the east side of the island, where the undergrowth was a little thinner under the ancient canopy overhead. We collected an armload of giant mussels and gooseneck barnacles from the west side, where the waves sucked out between the cracks in the rocks.
It was the longest day of the year; we cooked our seafood feast over the campfire before settling in to watch the last of the light fade from the summer sky. After our breakfast of cream of wheat with hippie grains and dried fruit, we set sail and headed north with fair winds and a clear sky. We took the route inside Calvert Island, and then spent most of the day close reaching up Fitzhugh Sound in 10 knots of wind. As we approached Hecate Island, it picked up to 15 knots, before dying away as we crossed Hakai Pass.
In order to go cruising, most of us require a sailboat with a head, a galley, and bunks. The boat, likely a footer and more often a footer, will have electronics for navigation and entertainment, refrigeration if the trip is longer than a coastal hop, an engine for light wind, and, depending on our appetites for food and fun, perhaps a genset to power our toys and appliances. To go sailing, however, all we really need is a hull, mast, rudder, and sail.
You can literally reach out and touch the water as it flows past. You instantly feel every puff of breeze and sense every change in trim.
Some of the boats in this list are new designs, others are time-tested models from small sailboat manufacturers, but every one is easy to rig, simple to sail, and looks like a whole lot of fun either for a solo outing on a breezy afternoon or to keep family and friends entertained throughout your entire sailing season.
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