Short Story: Boys Night Out

We left Friday Harbor in a single file and went through the gap out into the channel. Nate led the way in Liz B. Arne was second in Husky. I was third in my Spirit, which was protocol as I was the youngest. It was four PM and there was plenty of summer daylight left, but the sky was a smudged gray in the distance. We gradually turned left in a big arc, our wakes intermingling.

“Husky, Husky, this is Spirit.”

“Go ahead Spirit.” Arne was always quick to answer the VHF radio. The cabin on his thirty-foot boat was compact; he could reach everything from his helm seat. Husky had a long, open cockpit behind the cabin for stacking stuff—crab traps, diesel generators, or whatever. Arne was the harbormaster and had Danish saltwater for blood. Quiet Arne was granted the final word on any issue concerning boats.

“What is your read on the weather, Husky?” I was the worrier in the group. Today was one of the few times I had joined in for a boys night out on their boats. Usually the trip was a fifthteen-minute run just across the channel to Parks Bay on neighboring Shaw Island. Not today.

“Weather should be O.K. Maybe a little wind.” Arne would say it was O.K. even if a hurricane was brewing.

“Nate, how about you?” I asked. On VHF everyone on a given channel hears everything said over that channel. We were using 39. I knew Nate was listening in. It’s what we all did when cruising together.

“I’m O.K. There’s plenty of sunlight ahead.” Nate, our most senior guy at 70, probably hadn’t even listened to the weather forecast. I had. It was a little iffy.

We rearranged ourselves from single file so we were running abreast up the mile-wide channel. We aimed almost due west toward a Canadian island, Saturna, twelve miles away. It was standing tall up to the brooding clouds. Our plan was to stop on Stuart Island, the last, tiny piece of the U.S. before Haro Strait, the international boundary line, Canadian waters, and Saturna.

With a small boost from the tide, we were making a speed of nine knots over the ground, according to my GPS. That was the best any of us were going to do against the light, headwind.

By the time we passed Yellow Island (see picture) to starboard about fifteen minutes later, my sense was that the wind had picked up a bit. From time to time spray would curl over my bow and onto my windows. I would flip my wipers on, then off again.

“Spirit, Spirit, this is Liz B.”

“Spirit here.”

“What you got to eat tonight? I‘m getting hungry.” His voice was flat, matter of fact. Laconic Nate had been an expert on de-fusing nuclear bombs in his earlier life. Even so, his were the funniest jokes around the boatyard. Quite a contrast.

“All I brought was wine,” I kidded, “red wine, of course.” Neither of the guys would touch Chardonnay.

My diesel engines hummed in unison.

I fingered my microphone button. After about ten minutes, I broke the silence: “Say, you two, I think the wind is picking up.” I had the wipers on full time now. The wind was coming straight at us, slowing us. Our speed over the ground had dropped to eight knots.

There was no reply. My guess was that Arne was checking the weather on channel 4 and that Nate was chewing on a toothpick, as he often did. We motored on. Little Flattop Island was crisp and flat just ahead about a mile. To the left of it was Stuart Island, four miles away. Our plan was to go into Prevost harbor on the west side of Stuart where we would anchor together, banter, and watch the sun set over Canada, wine glasses in hand.

“Spirit, Spirit, Husky here.”

“Go ahead Arne,” I said.

“How you doing?” Arne, who was the same age as me, tended to father me a bit since I was a relative greenhorn in boating matters. I had the biggest boat and the least experience.

“Seems to me the weather is not getting better.”

Nate piped in. “This is standard, afternoon stuff.”

Arne continued: “Nate, maybe we should drop down along Spiden (Island) and overnight in Reid Harbor.” Reid was on the east side of Stuart and, for the moment at least, out of the path of the wind.

My thought popped out and onto the airway: “I have a motto, fellows. Don’t drive into bad weather.” No one replied to my advice. We plowed on. The wave tops reached higher. I could see Liz B. hobby-horsing, bow up…then bow down, splash. She was the smallest of our three boats.

“If we are going to run down along Spiden, we gotta make a turn inside ten minutes,” I said, dispensing with using the boat names. Things were getting serious as far as I was concerned. This was to be a fun night out.

I checked around 360 degrees. My eyesight agreed with my radar. No other boats were in the channel.

After a few minutes, I depressed the button on the side of my microphone. “O.K. guys. What do you old salts think?” I was just the Captain of my boat, not the party leader.

“I think we’ll be O.K. shortly, but let’s try Reid Harbor, Arne,” said Nate. At last the authorities conferred.

Arne: “I am alright with that. How about you, Steve?"

I fiddled with my mike button and took one more look around before depressing the button and speaking slowly: “I’m going back to Friday Harbor, fellows. Anyone want to join me?” No response.

I slowed Spirit until my partners were ahead of me. I picked a trough, pushed both throttles to full ahead and made a quick, 180-degree turn. The boat rolled a little as we went broad-side to the wind. Then it was calm. I headed homewards, downwind and down waves.

“Have a good one,” said Arne.

“See you later.” Nate.

“Best to you, fellows.”

I turned my windshield wipers off.

Copyright© 2013 Steven C. Brandt