With a light rain and confused waves we left Tofino. We could see people on the beach. It was probably not great surfing but I imagine they did find the sense and order of a set as they crashed ashore. Everything was grey and the usual nausea took hold of me. Going back and forth from land to sea on a trip like this is tedious. I don’t stay sick for long, and its nice to be out for weeks, and even months, as the illness so characteristic of the first few days at sea disappear. You just don’t get that when hopping around an island.
It seemed we rowed through the same shade of grey throughout the afternoon until night fell. In the distance, the lights of Ucluelet BC seemed fuzzy through a somewhat foggy evening. At the time, we didn’t feel like we were going that fast, and yet the next day it was clear that we would enter the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and our last hundred or so miles to Vancouver. The waves had long settled to low, calm rollers, and as Tatoosh Island – the most northwest corner of the lower-48 states – came into view it was clear, though not particularly cold. Broad ‘V’s’ of Canada Geese made their way north. We had seen dozens of these along the coast, but now they stretched from as far south as we could see down the Washington coast, all the way north up Vancouver Island. And they kept coming. For an animal I had regarded as quite common, I was struck by the majesty of their evolved discipline as each bird took a turn at the front to break the wind of their respective formations.
Besides this, little happened save more swift progress that brought us just west of Race Rocks at dawn the next day. A pleasure boat pulled up next to us to show us two beautiful silver king salmon. We smiled, impressed, and ate cheese and gummy fruit snacks and kept rowing. Calm water invited us to row on the inside of the notorious Race Rocks. Red flags were up on the island just to the north. About as soon as Greg vocalized wondering what they signified, a RIB (Ridged Inflatable Boat) ripped through the water stopping fifty yards off our port bow. Men in dry suits and official voices looked at us sternly. “You are in a restricted military zone. Get 1000 meters away from the island.” We looked at him and I acknowledged a “yes sir,” while Greg realized aloud “So that’s probably what those red flags mean, eh?” and continued to row away from the island at a blistering 3 knots.
Several minutes later a huge explosion ripped through the air vibrating my chest. Smoke began to rise from the island.