A Strange Coda

The man was sunbaked, with reddish, slightly over-cooked skin. I squinted at him there on the rickety dock, clad in a bandana, shorts, and a ratty T-shirt. Behind him, perched on pilings, stood a 1900s-era wooden building with a faded sign reading “Back Bay Marina & Resort.”

- Bruce Bateau

My friends and I had just tied up our boats. “Hey,” said the man, walking toward us. “You wanna buy a motor-cruiser”? He had clearly misjudged his audience.

For the dedicated sail and oarsman, it’s hard to resist the allure of briny seaweed and wide open water. That’s why each spring, I put the word out to my crew of adventurers: it’s time for our annual Salish Sea expedition. Each year the trip is a little different, but there’s always good fellowship and the wonders of the marine world to explore. This time it was a member of our own species who made the expedition memorable.

The water was placid and hot, strangely hot, as my crew left the boat ramp that first day. After rowing several miles and ghosting in to a secluded cove, the setting sun’s beams reached the ancient, orange-barked madrone trees covering the hillside behind us, and I felt a sense of contentment at being surrounded by kindred spirits in such a peaceful and beautiful place.

By the second day, the wind had grown, as had the crew, which now numbered four boats. The group decided to make camp at a state park known for its shallow bay—and crowds. I went along warily. Leftto my own devices, I avoid sailing or anchoring where I might have to deal with lots of people. I hoped the park would be deserted this early in the season.