Swamped in the Strait

A frightening experience in an open boat by James McMullen

Illustration Joseph Buchanan

On Saturday, April 19, 2014, I was headed across the mouth of Admiralty Inlet from Keystone Harbor on the Whidbey Island side over to Port Townsend for the weekend in my Oughtred-designed sail and oar boat, Rowan, when I got clobbered by a squall. Overwhelmed by the wind and the sea state, I was knocked down and swamped, and blown out to sea.

It was a crossing I had done literally dozens of times before, and I was pretty familiar with both the area and certainly the boat, with over a thousand miles logged under her keel. I never quite expected to find myself in such a predicament.

Perhaps it was too much familiarity that led to me underestimating the dangers that day. Perhaps it was bad judgement. Maybe it was merely bad luck, a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m still trying to figure it all out. I know I sure don’t feel like repeating the experience, so whatever I can learn to minimize the chance of this sort of thing happening again is pretty high on my to-do list.

The forecast for the area had predicted winds up to 20 knots, which are on the higher side for a little boat, sure, but nothing I hadn’t done plenty of times before. Rowan is a fairly big and capable boat for her type, and she was equipped with buoyancy tanks, three rows of reef points, and a sorta excitable and gung-ho skipper. We were going. It was going to be just fine. Merely another pleasantly exciting ride. And I had friends to meet on the other side; Howard Rice had just flown in from Japan and was teaching one of his SCAMP sailing academy classes that weekend. I was looking forward to meeting up with Howard and a bunch of my other Port Townsend friends, hanging out and talking small boats for the weekend.

The Strait of Juan de Fuca is pretty notorious for unpredictable weather and rough seas, and right where they meet up with the body of water called Admiralty Inlet is a bit of a pinch point where the weather systems rolling in from the open ocean can collide with the stuff coming from the other side of the Olympic Mountain range. And then there’s the complicated tidal currents to contend with, as much of Puget Sound sloshes in and out through there. When the wind and the tide interact, it can change the wave patterns rather remarkably. If the wind and the tide are going the same direction, it can flatten things out and make it more peaceful. When they argue, it can pack the waves up steep and nasty. Oh, and did I mention that all the shipping traffic for Seattle and the rest of Puget Sound goes right through there? Container ships, freighters, tankers, aircraft carriers. . . A small boat needs to keep an eye out and dodge these guys, because they’re not going to dodge you.

I knew all this, and I thought I’d made a plan to take this all into account. With the predicted SSE winds, I had figured my launch time to start with the ebb tide, expecting to make it across past Point Wilson by the slack, and then have the flood behind me for just the last bit when I was already nearly into Port Townsend Bay. Well, the best laid plans. . .

The wind was onshore at the launch point in Keystone Harbor, so I started out under oars, rowing out against the wind until I had the current ferrying me downstream around the point at Fort Casey to where I had a little bit of sea room. There I stowed my oars, dropped the centerboard and rudder, tucked in a couple of reefs in the fore, and raised sail. The whole first half of the crossing was nothing but fun, crashing along through the moderate chop, occasionally sitting up on the gunwale to hike out a bit in the gusts, then dropping back down to sit on the side bench. There was an awful lot of ship traffic though—a whole string of them rolling past.

My usual tactic when I see a large ship bearing down is to steer for its stern until I am sure that we are not on intersecting courses. These things move much faster than they look like they are, and it’s important to not cut too close in front of one, obviously. I changed course several times, bearing off to be sure to pass behind. Unfortunately, these course changes, coupled with the tidal current, not to mention the leeway I was making, all were driving me a bit farther north than I would have preferred. I came back on the starboard tack for a while to see if I could make up some ground southwards, but the wind and the current were going almost the same direction by now, so it didn’t seem like I would be making very useful progress headed that way. I figured I really ought to just boogie across the shipping lanes and get over to the other side, make my southing over where I could do it out of the way of anybody. I’m still having fun. It’s just a typical small-boat challenge.

And then the wind picked up. Really picked up. Yikes! Now it’s starting to get a little challenging. I’m up on the rail the whole time now, feathering in the gusts. Time to tuck in another reef! I heave to, drop the fore and tie in the third reef. Rowan is actually very well mannered and docile when hove-to under her mizzen, but I’m really getting blown backwards now, losing a lot of ground and headed out towards the Strait where I really don’t want to be! And these waves are getting confused and steep, really steep! I get underway again, but with a third reef in, and with these waves there’s no way I can point high enough to make it inside of Point Wilson. My little, light boat doesn’t have enough of a keel or momentum to hang on. I’m getting skittered sideways and making way too much leeway.

I start reviewing my options for bearing off to some safe landing more off the wind. Downwind is the open Strait, with Lopez Island something like 20 miles away. There’s maybe Smith Island, roughly halfway across-ish. Maybe I could tuck in the lee behind that and wait it out? But if I miss, what’s my next option? Victoria BC, even farther? But I don’t have my passport with me, flashes through my mind.

I notice hearing someone tunelessly humming under his breath. Oh sh##, that’s me! I realize. Uh-oh, I tend to do that when I’m really nervous. I start to suspect I’m probably not having that much fun anymore, but I can’t quite pinpoint exactly when it changed over.

And then the unthinkable happened. A huge gust hit me, shaking the whole boat, and just at the time a great big wave peaked and then dropped out from under me. I let loose the sheet and tried to head up, but with growing horror and the feathered sail streaming dead downwind I realized I am simply being inexorably levered over by the wind pressure. Time dilates, and I watched the rail dip under in seeming slow motion. I clambered out and over the rail and found myself clinging to the port quarter of the knocked-down boat. Dammit, this is really happening. Can’t change the channel now. This sucks!

I had always until now practiced a simple rule for basic open-boat safety.

Step One: Don’t capsize.

Well phooey! That didn’t work. I guess it’s time to try Plan B.