Shantyboat 911

By Bryan Lowe "Though the air was cool, almost too cool for my planned overnight, I was happy to be back— back on what I’ve come to call 'my sloughs'..."

Painting by Joseph Buchanan

Though the air was cool, almost too cool for my planned overnight, I was happy to be back— back on what I’ve come to call “my sloughs,” given the sense I have there of total isolation.

For most, the sloughs are barely noticed, muddy troughs beneath the highway between western Washington’s Everett and Marysville. They are Ebey, Steamboat and Union Sloughs, a maze of silty waterways, some of them formed naturally as a sort of delta for the Snohomish River, others clearly created as storage channels for logs by a once thriving timber industry. Two or three mills remain on the sloughs, but crumpled shacks and hundreds of pilings give a hint of what once was. Ghosts of the past inhabit the sloughs, hazy memories in the form of large wooden boats and barges long abandoned, decaying ships slowly sliding into the mud. Other time capsules in the mud are the rotten pilings that fill the shoreline, many lurking just beneath the surface.

On this day a lone Kingfisher hovers above the water, set to launch like the ball of a cannon straight into the water once he spots a fingerling below. I also spy my first seal of the day, creatures I always look forward to seeing. Their heads suddenly pop out of the water, looking for all the world like a pet dog, inquisitive and friendly. It feels as though they have a genuine interest in me, though their cute faces could be obscuring simple fear. I’m pretty sure, though, that they’ve followed me, popping up to check me out, perhaps even with the kind of puzzled surprise that the burly fisherman give me.

My journey has no destination, no schedule, so I shut off my motor and drift to the side of the channel. Within minutes the water erupts along the bank about 70 feet to my right, a wall of water coming alive, rising in two distinct mounds. In the lead a salmon swimming quite literally for its life from the seal just a couple of yards behind. It happens so quickly my mind is trying to figure it all out. I’m trying to snap pictures with my iPhone, but it’s all a bit of a whirl, water splashing in the shallows about me at an amazing speed. And then it’s on me, a loud thud announcing the fish had hit my boat, and at the same moment the seal realizes it’s upon me. Just inches short of hitting, he veers to his right to escape, but that’s a path to nowhere, a small stream too shallow for a creature so big. We see each other, this odd man on the boat snapping some pretty poor pictures, and a seal trapped between the shore and death by an iPhone addict. The water erupts again; the seal rockets past me through the narrow gap that brought it there in the first place. A moment later a head pops up, perhaps in an effort to understand what just happened. He moves on down the river, heading toward safer hunting grounds.

My journey has no destination, no schedule, so I shut off my motor and drift to the side of the channel.

I used to go on trips on the slough with my son, starting at age 11 or so. Like most kids his attention span was measured in seconds, so I always had to keep things moving, had to have a plan, options for places to explore. Now he prefers to spend time with his girlfriend of four years. My daughter would do day trips, which were delightful, but her imagination would get the worst of her. Sasquatch or killers lurked around each corner. 

I motor to another favorite bend, a place to stop for lunch. I’m not really that hungry, but cooking on the slough is another favorite pastime. On my way I stop to gather twigs for my cooking appliance, I guess you would call it—a Kelly Kettle from Ireland. No need for propane or special fuels with this little wonder. Simply collect twigs from dead branches hanging out over the water, then fill the kettle with water. On top, canned soup, a chicken gumbo this time, heated above the fire’s flue, which runs through the center of the kettle itself. When the soup on top is done, so is the tea water stored in the kettle. It certainly is cooking in a manner that seems in step with my boat.

I moved a few miles up the meandering sloughs, making my way through the multitude of unmarked turns, all so familiar to me now, as I’ve been here dozens of times through the years. Little has changed other than a smattering of sunken wrecks scattered along my way. The big ones change slowly, perhaps a small remaining section of stern rail knocked out by logs in the floods last fall. It’s the small wrecks that change most, some totally disappearing from one season to the next, but they are certain to be replaced by new derelicts, especially in this economy. Some I look forward to seeing, the wooden ones, as they have a certain charm, even a sense of somehow belonging there, a part of the slough and the people who lived there. Many were clearly homes, shantyboats of sorts, pleasure craft on their last legs converted into a small, affordable, and in the end, disposable home. The fiberglass or steel hulled boats simply look like litter on a giant scale, some of them huge, one an Alaskan waters capable fishing trawler gutted by fire. It’s hard not to resent their intrusion, and given what they’re made of, they could easily be there for decades. Perhaps they’ll be seen as charming by some future traveler.

I slowly motor past one of two marinas on the slough, this one most assuredly filled with people living on the fringe. I’ve talked with a good number of them through the years, all quite nice really, but each speaks of the strangeness of the others around them. I once toured one of the boats, glimpsed into the windows with the owners permission, and saw inside all nature of weapons and buckets filled with bullets, a cache capable of fighting off a flotilla of pirates. There are a couple of modern, even large, fiberglass boats, but many are quite old, once beautiful wooden relics of the past, some luxurious when made, most far beyond hope of resurrection. Liveaboards aren’t allowed, but many are clearly lived in, most with modifications likely made using “recycled” materials, the odd home window casing or salvaged plywood sheets. Usually someone is out working, though I’m not sure I’ve ever noticed progress through the passing years. Some were shantyboats in the style of old, some quite charming or quaint, with the air of Hobbitt about them. Those are gone now, and with their passing a look of squalor gently nudges out the one-time air of whimsy. Even so, it’s easy to imagine this place so popular as to have a que of “respectable folks” waiting to get in. Absent the derelict boats, even a rusting crane and abandoned semi-truck on shore, this place could be beautiful. Even now, I look forward to slowly cruising past, always with a thought of how this place would be as a home one day—when I retire—maybe even in the condition it is today.

Some were shantyboats in the style of old, some quite charming or quaint, with the air of Hobbitt about them.

My biggest surprise in my early days on the slough was how much impact the tides had, even miles up from the sound. On my first outing I went up the Snohomish River and moored my boat in the muddy shallows outside the city of Snohomish itself. My son Lex and I headed to the local airport, Harvey Field, for a burger, and returned to find my boat high and dry. We had to wait a few hours for the tide to come in sufficiently to get re-floated. It was time well spent though, as we picked blackberries for cobbler later that night. For a few years after that I was always sure to spend the night anchored safely in the middle of the slough, well clear of the dangers on the edges. That all changed after getting soundly beaten in the middle of the night by huge logs racing down the slough. The current can move amazingly quickly at maximum low tide, and an uprooted tree has incredible mass. I can’t tell you how many times I woke up to the loud thud and crack of some immense object hitting me. 

So on this night, as on a couple of dozen outings before, including one at this very place, I tied to a tree that reached far out into the slough, keeping out of the middle of the current, but a safe distance from shore and its hidden dangers. It was a beautiful place, far from homes and other boaters, or roads or train tracks. I nestled into the branches, another night alone on the river, alone with sounds of coyotes howling in the distance, and an angry beaver slapping its tail in the waters nearby, upset at my incursion into its world. I drifted off to sleep, lulled into slumbers by the sounds and the gentle rocking of the boat.

I awoke to the sound of popping plywood and the odd sensation that my head was far lower than my feet. I instantly knew what it meant, the front of my boat was hung up on shore and I’d have to push it off. To be certain I gently rocked back and forth a bit in my bunk, and the boat started to rock with me. Odd, I thought. If I am stuck on the shore the boat wouldn’t rock, as I would be more under the control of earth than water. I jumped out of bed, popping my head out the open forward hatch above me. The shore was next to me, not under me. Something wasn’t right. 

I crawled out onto the forward deck and the scene just wasn’t making sense. The front of the boat was not in the water... the tide had clearly gone out leaving me high and dry for most of the length of the boat, but on what? It hardly mattered. I was going to have to act fast; the water was slipping away from me, leaving me on God knows what. I jumped off the front of the boat, falling to ground, but I didn’t hit when I expected. Ground, mud really, was about two feet lower than I thought. My boat was really up in the air.

I crawled out onto the forward deck and the scene just wasn’t making sense. The front of the boat was not in the water... the tide had clearly gone out leaving me high and dry for most of the length of the boat, but on what?

“Oh, no. Oh, no,” I said aloud to nothing but darkness and an angry beaver. I was ankle deep in mud, holding fast to the side of the boat for fear of falling or slipping, alone in a slough with my boat in the air. This was not good.

Even in the dim moonlight I could see the left front half of the boat was resting on a decayed and ancient piling, a relic from the slough’s logging past, a mooring for the rafts of logs once so common in these waters. The right front, where I was standing, was hanging in the air just above another rotting piling. The right rear of the boat was just an inch or so above the water. 

I had to act—do something—but was I in the water at all? Was I too late? I paused for a moment to take stock of my situation. I am an out of shape 52 year old man, standing in the mud in my underwear and a T-shirt, my boat out of water, the temperature 43 degrees at best, probably colder. How far out of the water was I? I edged toward the bow, the “shore,” the muddy shore, such as it was, falling away beneath me into the water, and tried to push the boat back in. Nothing. 

I inched my way back along the starboard side, navigating the sloping, uneven muddy shoreline, the boat my steady support, and began to wade into the slough, careful not to fall, unsure of how deep it would get. I could see that the far corner of my boat was still in the water, and from the feel of the muddy bottom beneath my feet I imagined the far corner must have been in three or four feet of water. The boat was sloping from stem to stern at about 20 degrees or so. I was stuck. I was alone, and I was getting cold standing in a swirling current that was now up to my knees, dressed in virtually nothing. I wasn’t totally sure I could get back in the boat, a thought that hit me like a ton of bricks, my treasured solitude had become a liability in the blink of an eye. 

I considered moving back to the bow, but it was a good five feet in the air by now, making a climb to the forward deck possible, perhaps, but unlikely. I worried, too, that my plywood boat, this boat I built in my driveway, was going to impale itself on the piling, plywood snapping and splintering, leaving a gaping hole in the bottom. I wanted to avoid the front ; a boyish-figure I was not, and my weight could be the straw the broke my boats back. So I pushed myself onto the rear railing, swirling my feet in the water to cleanse them of mud, and slowly pulled myself into the rear cockpit. 

I sat on the floor in the dark and weighed my options. How far out was the tide? Was this the worst of it, or were my troubles just starting? In the darkness I could see the slough’s waters swirling past me, but how near was I to slack tide, that turning point between low and high tides? I threw a twig into the water and it raced away. The tide was clearly still going out, a finding echoed by the crashing of some pots inside the cabin. I struggled to see if the stern was still falling relative to the bow. It must be, I thought, as the items that started to fall had been stable before. The angle was changing, and as I sat up to look toward the front, I saw that I was now at about a 30 degrees slope or so, with the boat also beginning to lean toward the water away from shore. 

Would she fall over sideways into the slough? I slid myself toward the shore, using my weight just so, working so the piling wouldn’t pop through up front, so the boat wouldn’t tip over into the water. I was going to have to wait this one out, a wait that could be hours. 

I heard another series of crashes inside the boat, a sure sign that things would get worse before they got better. Would they get better? I was getting cold. I peeked into the cabin and saw that much of my bedroom, my forward bunks, had just headed from bow to stern. The only good news was that it also delivered my sleeping bag to within easy reach. I pulled it out the doors and wrapped myself within it, sliding down just a touch, carefully, slowly, until I was able to lie on the cramped floor of the rear cockpit, my face poking out of the folds of my bag. 

Could I sleep? Should I? No...but I couldn’t remain on edge for the next three or more hours. Panic raced in. Would they find my body, the victim of a heart attack? I reeled my imagination back in, slowed my breathing and worked to calm down, to be more rational, a task made somewhat more difficult as my kitchen supplies crashed to the rear of the cabin. 

My boat was now at about 40 degrees. I paused. Really? Would people believe me? Was it possible? I set my hand at a 45 degree angle and compared it to the tortured angle of my boat. It was possible. Another crash of items within the boat came as further confirmation. 

What if I lose my boat, the boat I built and shared with my family for so many events and outings: the Center for Wooden Boats show every July, boat outings with my son, a few days away after many of his 11 operations at Children’s Hospital. Time with my wife in the Skagit—time alone on the sloughs, the surest antidote to the stress of being a parent, a son, an employee, a neighbor. 

I can handle this, I thought. The tide goes out, the tide comes in, and when it does all will be good. Then I heard a trickle of water at my feet. I popped out of my REI cocoon and saw that water, the slough, was coming over the transom. My boat had reached such a steep angle, such a tortured twist away from shore, that the corner was now slipping beneath the water. I was sinking. I might lose my boat.

Throughout this time, easily a couple of hours since the first popping of plywood, I wondered if I should call someone. My wife? What could she do other than worry. My son, who had experience out on the boat with me? What would he do? He is working on a boat of his own, actually taking classes now in boat building, but his boat was in pieces in our garage. The police? In my 52 years I’ve called 911 for an ambulance twice, both times for my son, whose genetic condition was uncertain enough that things such as a fall down the front steps became so much more dangerous, in my mind at least, perhaps in reality. I still don’t know. I’d never called to be rescued, never feared for my safety, really. Until this moment, it seemed a bit over the top, an over reaction to a temporarily bad situation, as the tide would return. But now, water was coming in my boat, a giant leap in an already troubling chain of events. Once your boat filled with water it would become no more buoyant than a brick of lead, the weight of it all surely sealing my fate, or at least the fate of my boat. 

I scrambled forward, my weight far more dangerous in the stern than the stem, the water pouring in the back far more ominous than the thought of a piling possibly bursting through the bottom. One was reality, the other simply fear. Since the boat was at 45 degrees by now, making my way forward meant climbing—through the debris, pulling myself up the incline using the open windows and ceiling beams as hand and footholds. Complicating it all, I worked to push some of the heavier items forward, wedging them into the bathroom and closet spaces, hoping that removing weight from the rear would halt the water’s flow. 

I looked for my cell phone. I knew where it was, as in where it had been when I went to sleep, but the world inside my boat was a bit topsy turvy at the moment. While it may sound as though I’d been rather frantic for quite some time this was the first time I would have used the word myself, my cell phone search seeming a critical mission, one crucial to maybe, just maybe, saving my boat. I found spatulas, matches, shampoo, cans of soup, clothes, and twenty minutes later, my cell phone, an admittedly intense 20 minutes. 

As it came to life I noticed two things...it was 3 a.m., and there was a warning saying my battery had less than 20% of life left. I’d have to call quickly. I paused. What would I say? What did I need? Where was I? Would they charge me for my rescue? Was my boat worth that charge? Did I need help, really?

What would I say? What did I need? Where was I? Would they charge me for my rescue? Was my boat worth that charge? Did I need help, really?

Did I need help? Yes, I wanted help at least. If my boat was filling with water, then it would remain beneath the water once the tide came back in. There would be no rescue at that point. It would become another charming wooden boat stuck in the mud on the banks of the slough. If only they could send out a Zodiac or something. It wouldn’t take much at all to keep the rear buoyant, a line from the stern of their boat would keep me afloat. It could work. They could help save my boat. And if the boat sank without their help, they could save me, as when the tide returned there was no shore to stand on. All land not underwater at high tide was stickers at this point on the slough. I’d look rather pathetic standing in the water next to my sunken boat, and I’d be cold and stuck. It could get bad. It was clear—I wanted help.

As to where I was I had to think for a moment. Which slough was this? I remembered passing highway nine and going another mile or so; that would help. I called 911.

“911. What’s the nature of your emergency?”

“I’m in a boat in a slough off the Snohomish River. I was spending the night. The tide went out and stranded my boat, which is now at a 45 degree angle down the bank, with water pouring into the stern. I need some help. My cell phone is running out of battery, so I need to be quick.”

I could tell they were having a bit of a problem with the mental imagery of it all, as I am sure of all the calls they had handled in the last few decades this was the first time they had heard that exact combination of words. We struggled for a while with my location, until, after a couple of minutes, I realized I was south of Highway Two, not Highway Nine, which seemed to make a touch more sense to them, though they were still unclear.

It suddenly occurred to me that my iPhone had a Yelp app in it, a little application that not only told me what restaurants were near me, no matter where in the country I was, it also showed my location on a map. I told them of my “app” and said I would call them back. Once opened, my app showed me that there were no restaurants nearby, not even any roads. I was a little red dot in a curving grey line amidst a sea of green forests and fields. I did the little iPhone fingers flick, pulling my view of the map to a larger scale. Still no roads. One more flick brought a short dead end street or two into view, called something like Seventy-Second Place SE and Stickly Road, two streets that may have been no more than a block or so long.

I called back, but got a new 911 operator, one who was equally calm, cool, reassuring and professional in all senses of the word, but I still wasn’t making myself totally clear here either. She leaned over to the next operator and asked her if she had worked with a guy out in the slough. They both worked quite hard at getting a good fix as to where exactly I was, and we were making progress. 

It was clear no police would be able to get to me by land, as the hike through the forests and swamps would be far beyond the call of duty. I wasn’t in immediate danger, that wouldn’t come for another two hours or so, once the tide came back in. As my cell phone was low, I got off the phone while they figured out their next step. 

A short time later a deputy or police officer, a sergeant of some kind, called me back. He said, in effect, “Now let me get this straight....” and proceeded to describe my ordeal to me. What was I doing out there at that time of night, he wondered. That I was camping out on the slough seemed to make some sense, if a bit odd. 

Why did I think my boat was sinking, was there a hole? I explained there was no hole, yet, but my biggest worry was the water coming over the transom. I asked if there was a boat that could be sent, perhaps to prop up the rear of my boat, and failing that, a boat that could pick me out of the water once the tide came back in. He had his doubts about them having a boat that could help savage my little ship. He’d call me back.

It was time to get dressed again, as I had been wedging myself into the front compartment, working hard to not fall down the 45 degree incline that was once my floor, sitting there in underwear and a T-shirt, the small blanket I’d found not really up to the task of what was to come. I slid into my jeans and a coat, shoes and socks seeming of rather questionable value at the moment, even if I could locate them.

They called again. Did I have flares or a flashlight? I let them know I did, but locating them was rather hard given the chaos inside my boat. I had candles in small REI lanterns, I assured them. They were dubious. They said they could wake up the water rescue crew, but they weren’t sure there was enough water for the boat at low tide, and it was awfully dark. My phone beeped a low battery warning, and we hung up again. They’d get back to me.

I felt bad about waking anyone up. Did I really need rescue? Then I wondered how many men had gotten themselves into serious trouble asking that question. I also felt a sense of relief, as the tone of the officers and 911 operators had turned from a mixture of concern and a bit of wonder at the mess I was presenting them, to a sound of concern and a dawning sense of solution. 

The phone rang again and I was informed the boat was on its way. They were going to get out of bed, check the tide charts, get the rescue boat up in Snohomish and tow it to Marysville where they would launch their rescue—my rescue. We kept the call brief, as they wanted to be sure I had enough battery for them to reach me once they got near. This was a relief. I would be rescued, plucked from the muddy waters, and perhaps my boat could be saved, my wonderful little boat. 

At that point the clouds parted and the sun began to shine, metaphorically speaking at least. Time seemed to speed up, the tide turning, my boat rising, safely, without sinking. When the angle of my floor decreased to about 30 degrees it occurred to me my phone hadn’t rung in some time, and at the same time I realized I wasn’t going to need to be rescued—probably not—I thought. As I went to call 911 to update them, to perhaps call off the rescue, I noted my cell phone was dead. Ugh. Man, was I embarrassed. I half wished my situation would take a slight turn for the worse, just for a good show once they arrived. I thought of yelling for help, help that would then call the police to say I didn’t need help. Stupid thoughts in the dark. Tired thoughts. 

A boat came roaring around the bend, spotlights bright enough I couldn’t really see the boat behind them. I half hoped it was an early morning fisherman, someone who could call off the troops, my brave rescue team, the people I had gotten out of bed. 

“Are you the police?” They were. I was relieved, embarrassed, and hopeful that they would be cool, be understanding. By this time my boat was at a 20 degree angle, offering little insight as to the danger I had sensed those many hours before. They dismissed my apologies as unneeded, and when I worried that I may have woken them up, one said it was okay, because he had already woken up to answer the phone. Good guys, these two. Would they give me a ticket for being stupid? I wondered to myself. Nope. 

They hovered nearby, though it was clear the incoming tide was going to be all the assistance I needed. After a half hour or 45 minutes, I was free. I started my outboard and motored away, my REI candles still glowing in the coming dawn. These two officers from the Snohomish County Sheriff’s office couldn’t have been nicer. No tickets. No lectures. No talk of paying for my rescue. Just two nice guys who had come roaring through the darkness to rescue me and my boat—to rescue me from some bad luck, yes, but also from some bad choices.

They circled back once more, just to be sure there was no water coming in from where the hull was resting on the piling, no other residual problems from my ordeal. There were none, and all else was working as though none of this had ever happened. With a wave they were gone.

I am certain this wasn’t their biggest rescue. While my situation was a bit odd, this was just another day for these people, but to me, these men and women are heroes. Thank you Snohomish County 911, and thank you Snohomish County Sheriff’s office

So is boating on the sloughs safe? Yes, if you learn from my experiences. I’d recommend checking out your overnight anchorage when the tides are low, giving you the chance to scope out what lurks beneath. Also, always be aware of the tides. I was the victim of a record low tide, but I would have known that if I’d checked the tide charts. That I was miles up from Puget Sound made no difference, as the effect of the tides is profound for many miles up. I’d also recommend two anchors, one on each end, to hold your position. Sometimes I have tied myself up to the pilings themselves, just be sure to do so at high tide and allow enough slack to keep from finding yourself hanging above the water as the waters recede.

The sloughs are a wonderful place for relaxed boating. As in all boating, just be sure you create your own luck by taking steps to be fully aware. Safe and fun boating is, in the end, our own responsibility. •SCA•

Bryan Lowe comes from a family of do-it-yourselfers. His grandfather built two boats, his father built the family home. He has started five boats and finished three, as it is sometimes better to admit defeat! He regularly uses his Escargot on the Snohomish River, Sammamish Slough, and the other rivers of the Pacific Northwest. He is Program Director of Classical KING FM in Seattle.