Close Calls
- Thread starter Tailspin
- Start date
R
Robert Warren
Guest
Guiding out of the Bamfeild Inn, I was in a 17' Whaler "Type" boat. They had just gotten three new ones they had padded seats and were the luxury model. But the cheap asses used the same little 30hp engines on them they had for the boats about 1000 pounds lighter. I had fished out of it for about a week and other than having to go a half mile before achieving plane I was feeling confident with it. I had new guests come in one evening in July, The fishing in the sound was slow to say the least and any action we might have was over at cree. We loaded up and headed out. We got over there about 4:30pm and started fishing, we had gotten 2 coho pretty quickly and I was just setting the line down again when the boat was picked up by a large wave and we surfed the curl for about 10 seconds. all the while the guests were down below my feet and the boat was almost at a 90 degree angle. That wave put us down and I looked out behind us and the sight that beheld my eyes was menacing. The sun blocked out at about the same time and as I looked out past Cree I saw the ominous black line out there. The light level went way down. I would have to say that in all it took about 5 mins to be fully engrossed by this squall. I didn't like our odds of running back to Bamfeild, but offered it as a suggestion. I told my guests "Well we now have 2 choices, we could go into the broken group islands and make a camp, start a fire, and have BBQ fish for dinner, Or we could foolishly risk our lives and try to make it back to the lodge". I left it entirely their decision. They decided we should make a run for it, much to my dismay. So away we start out in this under powered jalopy. We got about 2-3 miles out from Cree when the full force of the squall hit. The water turned from being "black" to being "white" as the big swells 20+ footers started capping on the tops and doubling in size!!! It was everything in my abilities to take us through that storm. In fact I left it up to the Big Guy most of the way, as I was literally praying that the wall we were climbing didn't flip us off the top back onto ourselves. After what seemed like forever we made it behind Folger Island, and turned for home, the worst behind us. We ducked in through the gap at Kirby and headed across the last channel. The fellow that chartered me that day owns a Resort in Costa Rica, and became a friend for life after that day. He invited me down to run one of his boats for him to guide for Marlin. He said he would fully trust me to drive any boat he owned after what we went through. I never have taken him up on his offer, although I've been hounded by him for yrs now when he comes up here to go fishing with me in mid- August. I still don't know how we made it through that storm though, I would never want anyone here on SFBC to go through that hell. Sure taught me how insignificant we are to the Ocean. And if I had to go through it again I defiantly would choose to pull in to a sheltered cove start a fire and have some BBQ fish and some beer. I wouldn't ask their opinion.
R
Robert Warren
Guest
Guiding out of the Bamfeild Inn, I was in a 17' Whaler "Type" boat. They had just gotten three new ones they had padded seats and were the luxury model. But the cheap asses used the same little 30hp engines on them they had for the boats about 1000 pounds lighter. I had fished out of it for about a week and other than having to go a half mile before achieving plane I was feeling confident with it. I had new guests come in one evening in July, The fishing in the sound was slow to say the least and any action we might have was over at cree. We loaded up and headed out. We got over there about 4:30pm and started fishing, we had gotten 2 coho pretty quickly and I was just setting the line down again when the boat was picked up by a large wave and we surfed the curl for about 10 seconds. all the while the guests were down below my feet and the boat was almost at a 90 degree angle. That wave put us down and I looked out behind us and the sight that beheld my eyes was menacing. The sun blocked out at about the same time and as I looked out past Cree I saw the ominous black line out there. The light level went way down. I would have to say that in all it took about 5 mins to be fully engrossed by this squall. I didn't like our odds of running back to Bamfeild, but offered it as a suggestion. I told my guests "Well we now have 2 choices, we could go into the broken group islands and make a camp, start a fire, and have BBQ fish for dinner, Or we could foolishly risk our lives and try to make it back to the lodge". I left it entirely their decision. They decided we should make a run for it, much to my dismay. So away we start out in this under powered jalopy. We got about 2-3 miles out from Cree when the full force of the squall hit. The water turned from being "black" to being "white" as the big swells 20+ footers started capping on the tops and doubling in size!!! It was everything in my abilities to take us through that storm. In fact I left it up to the Big Guy most of the way, as I was literally praying that the wall we were climbing didn't flip us off the top back onto ourselves. After what seemed like forever we made it behind Folger Island, and turned for home, the worst behind us. We ducked in through the gap at Kirby and headed across the last channel. The fellow that chartered me that day owns a Resort in Costa Rica, and became a friend for life after that day. He invited me down to run one of his boats for him to guide for Marlin. He said he would fully trust me to drive any boat he owned after what we went through. I never have taken him up on his offer, although I've been hounded by him for yrs now when he comes up here to go fishing with me in mid- August. I still don't know how we made it through that storm though, I would never want anyone here on SFBC to go through that hell. Sure taught me how insignificant we are to the Ocean. And if I had to go through it again I defiantly would choose to pull in to a sheltered cove start a fire and have some BBQ fish and some beer. I wouldn't ask their opinion.
westcoast advneture
Member
Best line I have ever heard in regards to close calls is "I love mother nature and the ocean but I never forget that she doesn't love me"
westcoast advneture
Member
Best line I have ever heard in regards to close calls is "I love mother nature and the ocean but I never forget that she doesn't love me"
I remember fishing in early morning with hundreds of sportsboats in the inlet several years ago, the dark black clouds came in with howling winds that created huge waves. Many boats got many close calls by hitting each other while steering on very strong current with big waves. Then winds stopped, heavy pouring rain began.[:0]
On other hand, I fished Cree Island once with a Bamfield friend. Yikes! Cree island got big swells with white caps for us in heavy rain with winds once. [:0]
On other hand, I fished Cree Island once with a Bamfield friend. Yikes! Cree island got big swells with white caps for us in heavy rain with winds once. [:0]
I remember fishing in early morning with hundreds of sportsboats in the inlet several years ago, the dark black clouds came in with howling winds that created huge waves. Many boats got many close calls by hitting each other while steering on very strong current with big waves. Then winds stopped, heavy pouring rain began.[:0]
On other hand, I fished Cree Island once with a Bamfield friend. Yikes! Cree island got big swells with white caps for us in heavy rain with winds once. [:0]
On other hand, I fished Cree Island once with a Bamfield friend. Yikes! Cree island got big swells with white caps for us in heavy rain with winds once. [:0]
Little Hawk
Active Member
Howdy,
Just back from huntin'... three deer, no elk... maybe next yr.
Great topic.
Been in some pretty rough water over the years while fishing, but the absolute scariest thing that I've ever been through happened under the strangest circumstances.
Summer 1980, probably late Aug or Sep at the mouth of the Cap under the Lions Gate bridge. Company fishing derby. I've got one of the owners (Hans) out with me on my old (but sturdy) 18' Fiberform. It was an open runabout with a 4-banger Merc sterndrive. It was a calm beautiful day, quite a few boats out and lots of people walking about in Ambleside park and on the beach.
Hans, the Dutchman, had little saltchucking experiance but after a few brewski's he was having a gay old time and was eager to catch a salmon.
We used to slay'em working the 'cut-plug' at the mouth of the Cap every year and on this day I would do nothing different.
But I soon discovered, much to my chagrin, something was different that day. I'd not seen them before and hope I don't see the likes of them again. Directly out in front of Ambleside Beach about 2 or 300 yards off shore is this circular shaped patch of rough water about a hundred yards in diameter containing a most lively batch of 6 to 8 ft. rollers packed in real close together. Strangely, the water around this cluster-f#&* was calm. I have since surmised that this unusual wave formation was a product of an exceptionally strong ebb combined with a wave-producing bottom structure/formation.
As I tried to anchor us at the mouth of the Cap in the usual 60 ft. of water (gravel bottom) the ebbing tide was so strong it would soon tear us away then carry us off - 3 or 4/hundred yards - out in front of Ambleside beach... right into the middle of the cluster-f#&*. Frustrated and swearing I'd then haul up the anchor line, motor ahead, re-set the anchor, drop the fishing lines, grab my beer and then sit down only to realize that we were once again being dragged away by this killer tide.
I decided to try a longer anchor line, figuring that if I increased the angle that maybe the anchor might bite better. Didn't work; only gave me more anchor line to haul up.
After six or seven times finding ourselves bobbing away out to sea... right into the cluster-f#&*. My arms were getting sore from hauling the 250-feet or more of anchor line in and I wasn't having fun.
So... I gets an idea.
As we drift once again into the big-rollers, I yell to Hans, "Keep an eye on the anchor line, I'm going to motor ahead slow and drag it back to the river mouth. Let me know if it gets too close to the prop!"
Hans understands and takes up his post at the transome to watch the anchor line.
It was all going quite good there for a while. I was at the wheel motoring ahead slow, sipping beer, dagging 250-300 ft. of rope and chain and we were about half way back to the river mouth when suddenly I hear the Dutchman yell, "Terry!"
I turn and look back just as the prop wraps itself in the anchor line - about 20/turns - then promptly stalls out the engine.
"F#&*!" yells me.
(I can hear all you veteran seafarers laughing out loud... you know what's coming, don't you.)
I didn't realize what was coming until it was nearly too late.
The instant the engine quit we were at the mercy of the tide, which of course reversed us and carried us directly back into the cluster-f#&*
Then, precisely about the time we began bobbing up and down violently amidst those 8ft. rollers, my previously lousy anchor decides to find a firm purchase on the bottom off Ambleside beach.
When the light finally went on in me as to just how treacherous a position I'd put us in, my face must surely have been white.
Hooked firmly to the bottom (and to the prop of my square-sterned runabout) she came around fast in the current as the rope tightend.
I watched in horror as she dipped into the first wave and it rolled over the transome into the back of the boat, drenching Hans and dumping better than a hundred gallons of water into her.
Seeing this I knew I had to act quickly. A couple more of them waves over the stern and we'd be heading for the bottom faster than a Deep-six planer.
Knife in hand - thank God it was sharp - I dove over the transome as I yelled at Hans to hold me by my feet. Holding my breath, I reached out with all my might and began sawing away at the rope.
As wave - #3 dumped itself into the boat, the line finally gave way to the knife and we bobbed up and away to salvation.
I'm certain to this day that if we'd taken but one more wave over the stern we'd both have been drinkin' beer with Davey Jones that warm sunny afternoon.
Cheers,
Terry
Just back from huntin'... three deer, no elk... maybe next yr.
Great topic.
Been in some pretty rough water over the years while fishing, but the absolute scariest thing that I've ever been through happened under the strangest circumstances.
Summer 1980, probably late Aug or Sep at the mouth of the Cap under the Lions Gate bridge. Company fishing derby. I've got one of the owners (Hans) out with me on my old (but sturdy) 18' Fiberform. It was an open runabout with a 4-banger Merc sterndrive. It was a calm beautiful day, quite a few boats out and lots of people walking about in Ambleside park and on the beach.
Hans, the Dutchman, had little saltchucking experiance but after a few brewski's he was having a gay old time and was eager to catch a salmon.
We used to slay'em working the 'cut-plug' at the mouth of the Cap every year and on this day I would do nothing different.
But I soon discovered, much to my chagrin, something was different that day. I'd not seen them before and hope I don't see the likes of them again. Directly out in front of Ambleside Beach about 2 or 300 yards off shore is this circular shaped patch of rough water about a hundred yards in diameter containing a most lively batch of 6 to 8 ft. rollers packed in real close together. Strangely, the water around this cluster-f#&* was calm. I have since surmised that this unusual wave formation was a product of an exceptionally strong ebb combined with a wave-producing bottom structure/formation.
As I tried to anchor us at the mouth of the Cap in the usual 60 ft. of water (gravel bottom) the ebbing tide was so strong it would soon tear us away then carry us off - 3 or 4/hundred yards - out in front of Ambleside beach... right into the middle of the cluster-f#&*. Frustrated and swearing I'd then haul up the anchor line, motor ahead, re-set the anchor, drop the fishing lines, grab my beer and then sit down only to realize that we were once again being dragged away by this killer tide.
I decided to try a longer anchor line, figuring that if I increased the angle that maybe the anchor might bite better. Didn't work; only gave me more anchor line to haul up.
After six or seven times finding ourselves bobbing away out to sea... right into the cluster-f#&*. My arms were getting sore from hauling the 250-feet or more of anchor line in and I wasn't having fun.
So... I gets an idea.
As we drift once again into the big-rollers, I yell to Hans, "Keep an eye on the anchor line, I'm going to motor ahead slow and drag it back to the river mouth. Let me know if it gets too close to the prop!"
Hans understands and takes up his post at the transome to watch the anchor line.
It was all going quite good there for a while. I was at the wheel motoring ahead slow, sipping beer, dagging 250-300 ft. of rope and chain and we were about half way back to the river mouth when suddenly I hear the Dutchman yell, "Terry!"
I turn and look back just as the prop wraps itself in the anchor line - about 20/turns - then promptly stalls out the engine.
"F#&*!" yells me.
(I can hear all you veteran seafarers laughing out loud... you know what's coming, don't you.)
I didn't realize what was coming until it was nearly too late.
The instant the engine quit we were at the mercy of the tide, which of course reversed us and carried us directly back into the cluster-f#&*
Then, precisely about the time we began bobbing up and down violently amidst those 8ft. rollers, my previously lousy anchor decides to find a firm purchase on the bottom off Ambleside beach.
When the light finally went on in me as to just how treacherous a position I'd put us in, my face must surely have been white.
Hooked firmly to the bottom (and to the prop of my square-sterned runabout) she came around fast in the current as the rope tightend.
I watched in horror as she dipped into the first wave and it rolled over the transome into the back of the boat, drenching Hans and dumping better than a hundred gallons of water into her.
Seeing this I knew I had to act quickly. A couple more of them waves over the stern and we'd be heading for the bottom faster than a Deep-six planer.
Knife in hand - thank God it was sharp - I dove over the transome as I yelled at Hans to hold me by my feet. Holding my breath, I reached out with all my might and began sawing away at the rope.
As wave - #3 dumped itself into the boat, the line finally gave way to the knife and we bobbed up and away to salvation.
I'm certain to this day that if we'd taken but one more wave over the stern we'd both have been drinkin' beer with Davey Jones that warm sunny afternoon.
Cheers,
Terry
Little Hawk
Active Member
Howdy,
Just back from huntin'... three deer, no elk... maybe next yr.
Great topic.
Been in some pretty rough water over the years while fishing, but the absolute scariest thing that I've ever been through happened under the strangest circumstances.
Summer 1980, probably late Aug or Sep at the mouth of the Cap under the Lions Gate bridge. Company fishing derby. I've got one of the owners (Hans) out with me on my old (but sturdy) 18' Fiberform. It was an open runabout with a 4-banger Merc sterndrive. It was a calm beautiful day, quite a few boats out and lots of people walking about in Ambleside park and on the beach.
Hans, the Dutchman, had little saltchucking experiance but after a few brewski's he was having a gay old time and was eager to catch a salmon.
We used to slay'em working the 'cut-plug' at the mouth of the Cap every year and on this day I would do nothing different.
But I soon discovered, much to my chagrin, something was different that day. I'd not seen them before and hope I don't see the likes of them again. Directly out in front of Ambleside Beach about 2 or 300 yards off shore is this circular shaped patch of rough water about a hundred yards in diameter containing a most lively batch of 6 to 8 ft. rollers packed in real close together. Strangely, the water around this cluster-f#&* was calm. I have since surmised that this unusual wave formation was a product of an exceptionally strong ebb combined with a wave-producing bottom structure/formation.
As I tried to anchor us at the mouth of the Cap in the usual 60 ft. of water (gravel bottom) the ebbing tide was so strong it would soon tear us away then carry us off - 3 or 4/hundred yards - out in front of Ambleside beach... right into the middle of the cluster-f#&*. Frustrated and swearing I'd then haul up the anchor line, motor ahead, re-set the anchor, drop the fishing lines, grab my beer and then sit down only to realize that we were once again being dragged away by this killer tide.
I decided to try a longer anchor line, figuring that if I increased the angle that maybe the anchor might bite better. Didn't work; only gave me more anchor line to haul up.
After six or seven times finding ourselves bobbing away out to sea... right into the cluster-f#&*. My arms were getting sore from hauling the 250-feet or more of anchor line in and I wasn't having fun.
So... I gets an idea.
As we drift once again into the big-rollers, I yell to Hans, "Keep an eye on the anchor line, I'm going to motor ahead slow and drag it back to the river mouth. Let me know if it gets too close to the prop!"
Hans understands and takes up his post at the transome to watch the anchor line.
It was all going quite good there for a while. I was at the wheel motoring ahead slow, sipping beer, dagging 250-300 ft. of rope and chain and we were about half way back to the river mouth when suddenly I hear the Dutchman yell, "Terry!"
I turn and look back just as the prop wraps itself in the anchor line - about 20/turns - then promptly stalls out the engine.
"F#&*!" yells me.
(I can hear all you veteran seafarers laughing out loud... you know what's coming, don't you.)
I didn't realize what was coming until it was nearly too late.
The instant the engine quit we were at the mercy of the tide, which of course reversed us and carried us directly back into the cluster-f#&*
Then, precisely about the time we began bobbing up and down violently amidst those 8ft. rollers, my previously lousy anchor decides to find a firm purchase on the bottom off Ambleside beach.
When the light finally went on in me as to just how treacherous a position I'd put us in, my face must surely have been white.
Hooked firmly to the bottom (and to the prop of my square-sterned runabout) she came around fast in the current as the rope tightend.
I watched in horror as she dipped into the first wave and it rolled over the transome into the back of the boat, drenching Hans and dumping better than a hundred gallons of water into her.
Seeing this I knew I had to act quickly. A couple more of them waves over the stern and we'd be heading for the bottom faster than a Deep-six planer.
Knife in hand - thank God it was sharp - I dove over the transome as I yelled at Hans to hold me by my feet. Holding my breath, I reached out with all my might and began sawing away at the rope.
As wave - #3 dumped itself into the boat, the line finally gave way to the knife and we bobbed up and away to salvation.
I'm certain to this day that if we'd taken but one more wave over the stern we'd both have been drinkin' beer with Davey Jones that warm sunny afternoon.
Cheers,
Terry
Just back from huntin'... three deer, no elk... maybe next yr.
Great topic.
Been in some pretty rough water over the years while fishing, but the absolute scariest thing that I've ever been through happened under the strangest circumstances.
Summer 1980, probably late Aug or Sep at the mouth of the Cap under the Lions Gate bridge. Company fishing derby. I've got one of the owners (Hans) out with me on my old (but sturdy) 18' Fiberform. It was an open runabout with a 4-banger Merc sterndrive. It was a calm beautiful day, quite a few boats out and lots of people walking about in Ambleside park and on the beach.
Hans, the Dutchman, had little saltchucking experiance but after a few brewski's he was having a gay old time and was eager to catch a salmon.
We used to slay'em working the 'cut-plug' at the mouth of the Cap every year and on this day I would do nothing different.
But I soon discovered, much to my chagrin, something was different that day. I'd not seen them before and hope I don't see the likes of them again. Directly out in front of Ambleside Beach about 2 or 300 yards off shore is this circular shaped patch of rough water about a hundred yards in diameter containing a most lively batch of 6 to 8 ft. rollers packed in real close together. Strangely, the water around this cluster-f#&* was calm. I have since surmised that this unusual wave formation was a product of an exceptionally strong ebb combined with a wave-producing bottom structure/formation.
As I tried to anchor us at the mouth of the Cap in the usual 60 ft. of water (gravel bottom) the ebbing tide was so strong it would soon tear us away then carry us off - 3 or 4/hundred yards - out in front of Ambleside beach... right into the middle of the cluster-f#&*. Frustrated and swearing I'd then haul up the anchor line, motor ahead, re-set the anchor, drop the fishing lines, grab my beer and then sit down only to realize that we were once again being dragged away by this killer tide.
I decided to try a longer anchor line, figuring that if I increased the angle that maybe the anchor might bite better. Didn't work; only gave me more anchor line to haul up.
After six or seven times finding ourselves bobbing away out to sea... right into the cluster-f#&*. My arms were getting sore from hauling the 250-feet or more of anchor line in and I wasn't having fun.
So... I gets an idea.
As we drift once again into the big-rollers, I yell to Hans, "Keep an eye on the anchor line, I'm going to motor ahead slow and drag it back to the river mouth. Let me know if it gets too close to the prop!"
Hans understands and takes up his post at the transome to watch the anchor line.
It was all going quite good there for a while. I was at the wheel motoring ahead slow, sipping beer, dagging 250-300 ft. of rope and chain and we were about half way back to the river mouth when suddenly I hear the Dutchman yell, "Terry!"
I turn and look back just as the prop wraps itself in the anchor line - about 20/turns - then promptly stalls out the engine.
"F#&*!" yells me.
(I can hear all you veteran seafarers laughing out loud... you know what's coming, don't you.)
I didn't realize what was coming until it was nearly too late.
The instant the engine quit we were at the mercy of the tide, which of course reversed us and carried us directly back into the cluster-f#&*
Then, precisely about the time we began bobbing up and down violently amidst those 8ft. rollers, my previously lousy anchor decides to find a firm purchase on the bottom off Ambleside beach.
When the light finally went on in me as to just how treacherous a position I'd put us in, my face must surely have been white.
Hooked firmly to the bottom (and to the prop of my square-sterned runabout) she came around fast in the current as the rope tightend.
I watched in horror as she dipped into the first wave and it rolled over the transome into the back of the boat, drenching Hans and dumping better than a hundred gallons of water into her.
Seeing this I knew I had to act quickly. A couple more of them waves over the stern and we'd be heading for the bottom faster than a Deep-six planer.
Knife in hand - thank God it was sharp - I dove over the transome as I yelled at Hans to hold me by my feet. Holding my breath, I reached out with all my might and began sawing away at the rope.
As wave - #3 dumped itself into the boat, the line finally gave way to the knife and we bobbed up and away to salvation.
I'm certain to this day that if we'd taken but one more wave over the stern we'd both have been drinkin' beer with Davey Jones that warm sunny afternoon.
Cheers,
Terry
mr killer
Active Member
pretty hard to top a couple of these stories so far, the scariest time I've had was about three years ago in Quatsino sound we we're blown out all afternoon so we decided to brave the 30-40k winds to cross the sound to the shelter on the south side, I was driving my Dads boat after climbing 10-12 foot waves the whole way we approached the reefs on the south side of the sound, I picked a line I wanted to thread through two of the reefs using the deep water in between, I could see on the gps we would be able to go through no problem, there was about about 100 feet between the reefs with deep water in between, as I was getting lined up the motor over heated from climbing wave after wave so the alarm sounds and the motor cuts out so I kind of freak out but my Dad remained calm and I just tried to keep it straight as we shoot between the hole two exposed reefs on both sides, dead in the water, we were pretty lucky it didn't die when we weren't lined up, pretty much a fluke I guess
mr killer
Active Member
pretty hard to top a couple of these stories so far, the scariest time I've had was about three years ago in Quatsino sound we we're blown out all afternoon so we decided to brave the 30-40k winds to cross the sound to the shelter on the south side, I was driving my Dads boat after climbing 10-12 foot waves the whole way we approached the reefs on the south side of the sound, I picked a line I wanted to thread through two of the reefs using the deep water in between, I could see on the gps we would be able to go through no problem, there was about about 100 feet between the reefs with deep water in between, as I was getting lined up the motor over heated from climbing wave after wave so the alarm sounds and the motor cuts out so I kind of freak out but my Dad remained calm and I just tried to keep it straight as we shoot between the hole two exposed reefs on both sides, dead in the water, we were pretty lucky it didn't die when we weren't lined up, pretty much a fluke I guess
Time
Well-Known Member
A good thread, some things to learn here and some to laugh at.
Little Hawk's tale of Ambleside reminds me of when I fell in love some years ago, she was a beauty to my eye.
Bayliner Trophy, 2392, blue and cream colours. Sharp lines, very good condition.
Previously, the largest boat I had owned was a 12 footer.
The day of the transfer my wife dropped a friend and myself off at Reed Point Marina in Port Moody. We were to take the boat from there to its new home at Fishermans Cove in West Vancouver. The original idea was to make the run at high tide in the late morning, but everything seemed to be delayed, papers to sign, money to pay, fuel to fill up on, etc., but eventually we got going. The afternoon westerly wind was rising when we set out, but no problem. This was a "big" boat, even if the crew had no real sea experience.
At Second Narrows there was a bit of chop as the tide was now outgoing.
Whitecaps were rising quickly in the harbour as we headed west, so we proceeded at reduced speed. At First Narrows (underneath Lions Gate Bridge), the wind whipped chop from English Bayay - which by now was 2 feet + inside the harbour - crashed against the now outflowing tidal current to throw up a mix you don't really want to see. I still swear the chop was a minimum of 10 feet high. Waves breaking over the bow and against the windshield, splattering over the cabin onto the rear deck, the boat pitching and tossing. No sane chance to turn around, holding the bow into the chop, doing maybe one knot, taking what seemed like an hour to make a couple hundred yards. Scared the ... out of me. Thought we were going down. Got through eventually and then across English Bay in 3-4 foot chop. Throttled back and bouncing all the way. A 1 hour trip done in 3-4 hours.
What an introduction to "boating".
The good parts:
- my buddy and I affirmed our life long friendship somewhere under the bridge area as we struggled to put our life jackets on and to maintain control of the boat.
- I never again doubted the strength of the boat.
- I never go out without knowing the timing of wind forecasts (bless Big Wave Dave for the hour by hour predictions), tides, and tidal currents.
- I plan my trips to minimize exposure, e.g., If launching at Pedder Bay, I'll pretty much stick to fishing east of Race Rocks, or use Cheanuh if fishing west of Race, to eliminate the need to take the passage around Race Rocks if the weather does catch me.
The bad part:
- my friend never set foot on that boat again (although he's happy to come out on my latest, but much smaller, boat).
Little Hawk's tale of Ambleside reminds me of when I fell in love some years ago, she was a beauty to my eye.
Bayliner Trophy, 2392, blue and cream colours. Sharp lines, very good condition.
Previously, the largest boat I had owned was a 12 footer.
The day of the transfer my wife dropped a friend and myself off at Reed Point Marina in Port Moody. We were to take the boat from there to its new home at Fishermans Cove in West Vancouver. The original idea was to make the run at high tide in the late morning, but everything seemed to be delayed, papers to sign, money to pay, fuel to fill up on, etc., but eventually we got going. The afternoon westerly wind was rising when we set out, but no problem. This was a "big" boat, even if the crew had no real sea experience.
At Second Narrows there was a bit of chop as the tide was now outgoing.
Whitecaps were rising quickly in the harbour as we headed west, so we proceeded at reduced speed. At First Narrows (underneath Lions Gate Bridge), the wind whipped chop from English Bayay - which by now was 2 feet + inside the harbour - crashed against the now outflowing tidal current to throw up a mix you don't really want to see. I still swear the chop was a minimum of 10 feet high. Waves breaking over the bow and against the windshield, splattering over the cabin onto the rear deck, the boat pitching and tossing. No sane chance to turn around, holding the bow into the chop, doing maybe one knot, taking what seemed like an hour to make a couple hundred yards. Scared the ... out of me. Thought we were going down. Got through eventually and then across English Bay in 3-4 foot chop. Throttled back and bouncing all the way. A 1 hour trip done in 3-4 hours.
What an introduction to "boating".
The good parts:
- my buddy and I affirmed our life long friendship somewhere under the bridge area as we struggled to put our life jackets on and to maintain control of the boat.
- I never again doubted the strength of the boat.
- I never go out without knowing the timing of wind forecasts (bless Big Wave Dave for the hour by hour predictions), tides, and tidal currents.
- I plan my trips to minimize exposure, e.g., If launching at Pedder Bay, I'll pretty much stick to fishing east of Race Rocks, or use Cheanuh if fishing west of Race, to eliminate the need to take the passage around Race Rocks if the weather does catch me.
The bad part:
- my friend never set foot on that boat again (although he's happy to come out on my latest, but much smaller, boat).
Time
Well-Known Member
A good thread, some things to learn here and some to laugh at.
Little Hawk's tale of Ambleside reminds me of when I fell in love some years ago, she was a beauty to my eye.
Bayliner Trophy, 2392, blue and cream colours. Sharp lines, very good condition.
Previously, the largest boat I had owned was a 12 footer.
The day of the transfer my wife dropped a friend and myself off at Reed Point Marina in Port Moody. We were to take the boat from there to its new home at Fishermans Cove in West Vancouver. The original idea was to make the run at high tide in the late morning, but everything seemed to be delayed, papers to sign, money to pay, fuel to fill up on, etc., but eventually we got going. The afternoon westerly wind was rising when we set out, but no problem. This was a "big" boat, even if the crew had no real sea experience.
At Second Narrows there was a bit of chop as the tide was now outgoing.
Whitecaps were rising quickly in the harbour as we headed west, so we proceeded at reduced speed. At First Narrows (underneath Lions Gate Bridge), the wind whipped chop from English Bayay - which by now was 2 feet + inside the harbour - crashed against the now outflowing tidal current to throw up a mix you don't really want to see. I still swear the chop was a minimum of 10 feet high. Waves breaking over the bow and against the windshield, splattering over the cabin onto the rear deck, the boat pitching and tossing. No sane chance to turn around, holding the bow into the chop, doing maybe one knot, taking what seemed like an hour to make a couple hundred yards. Scared the ... out of me. Thought we were going down. Got through eventually and then across English Bay in 3-4 foot chop. Throttled back and bouncing all the way. A 1 hour trip done in 3-4 hours.
What an introduction to "boating".
The good parts:
- my buddy and I affirmed our life long friendship somewhere under the bridge area as we struggled to put our life jackets on and to maintain control of the boat.
- I never again doubted the strength of the boat.
- I never go out without knowing the timing of wind forecasts (bless Big Wave Dave for the hour by hour predictions), tides, and tidal currents.
- I plan my trips to minimize exposure, e.g., If launching at Pedder Bay, I'll pretty much stick to fishing east of Race Rocks, or use Cheanuh if fishing west of Race, to eliminate the need to take the passage around Race Rocks if the weather does catch me.
The bad part:
- my friend never set foot on that boat again (although he's happy to come out on my latest, but much smaller, boat).
Little Hawk's tale of Ambleside reminds me of when I fell in love some years ago, she was a beauty to my eye.
Bayliner Trophy, 2392, blue and cream colours. Sharp lines, very good condition.
Previously, the largest boat I had owned was a 12 footer.
The day of the transfer my wife dropped a friend and myself off at Reed Point Marina in Port Moody. We were to take the boat from there to its new home at Fishermans Cove in West Vancouver. The original idea was to make the run at high tide in the late morning, but everything seemed to be delayed, papers to sign, money to pay, fuel to fill up on, etc., but eventually we got going. The afternoon westerly wind was rising when we set out, but no problem. This was a "big" boat, even if the crew had no real sea experience.
At Second Narrows there was a bit of chop as the tide was now outgoing.
Whitecaps were rising quickly in the harbour as we headed west, so we proceeded at reduced speed. At First Narrows (underneath Lions Gate Bridge), the wind whipped chop from English Bayay - which by now was 2 feet + inside the harbour - crashed against the now outflowing tidal current to throw up a mix you don't really want to see. I still swear the chop was a minimum of 10 feet high. Waves breaking over the bow and against the windshield, splattering over the cabin onto the rear deck, the boat pitching and tossing. No sane chance to turn around, holding the bow into the chop, doing maybe one knot, taking what seemed like an hour to make a couple hundred yards. Scared the ... out of me. Thought we were going down. Got through eventually and then across English Bay in 3-4 foot chop. Throttled back and bouncing all the way. A 1 hour trip done in 3-4 hours.
What an introduction to "boating".
The good parts:
- my buddy and I affirmed our life long friendship somewhere under the bridge area as we struggled to put our life jackets on and to maintain control of the boat.
- I never again doubted the strength of the boat.
- I never go out without knowing the timing of wind forecasts (bless Big Wave Dave for the hour by hour predictions), tides, and tidal currents.
- I plan my trips to minimize exposure, e.g., If launching at Pedder Bay, I'll pretty much stick to fishing east of Race Rocks, or use Cheanuh if fishing west of Race, to eliminate the need to take the passage around Race Rocks if the weather does catch me.
The bad part:
- my friend never set foot on that boat again (although he's happy to come out on my latest, but much smaller, boat).
Tailspin
Active Member
by time
One of my stories that i will post when i have time is from a good friend on a 60 foot tug through the Race. Sure can be wicked going through there from the Hali grounds back to Cheanuh, one of my reasons for moving to Pedder. The Outfitters Hali Derby in 05 was a ****kicker for us 15+ footers in the dark, big westerly and heavy ebb. We decided run the Passaage to hide out at Albert Head for the day, rather than head West to Jordan River from Cheanuh as planned. French and the boys reported 18 footers at Sheriingham! Got to Bentick and dropped one of our crew at Pedder after going through the race going with the following sea(westerly)Puker in 10 minutes[xx(] Down to two of us for the day. Here is a pic of the Calgary from just off flattery Buoy Juliet en route to Hawaii in a real big blow, two were air lifted off from injuries, one a chopper pilot broke his arm so bad he can't fly even today. Another lacerated his head off a filing cabinet 70+ stitches and severe concussion...
One of my stories that i will post when i have time is from a good friend on a 60 foot tug through the Race. Sure can be wicked going through there from the Hali grounds back to Cheanuh, one of my reasons for moving to Pedder. The Outfitters Hali Derby in 05 was a ****kicker for us 15+ footers in the dark, big westerly and heavy ebb. We decided run the Passaage to hide out at Albert Head for the day, rather than head West to Jordan River from Cheanuh as planned. French and the boys reported 18 footers at Sheriingham! Got to Bentick and dropped one of our crew at Pedder after going through the race going with the following sea(westerly)Puker in 10 minutes[xx(] Down to two of us for the day. Here is a pic of the Calgary from just off flattery Buoy Juliet en route to Hawaii in a real big blow, two were air lifted off from injuries, one a chopper pilot broke his arm so bad he can't fly even today. Another lacerated his head off a filing cabinet 70+ stitches and severe concussion...
Tailspin
Active Member
by time
One of my stories that i will post when i have time is from a good friend on a 60 foot tug through the Race. Sure can be wicked going through there from the Hali grounds back to Cheanuh, one of my reasons for moving to Pedder. The Outfitters Hali Derby in 05 was a ****kicker for us 15+ footers in the dark, big westerly and heavy ebb. We decided run the Passaage to hide out at Albert Head for the day, rather than head West to Jordan River from Cheanuh as planned. French and the boys reported 18 footers at Sheriingham! Got to Bentick and dropped one of our crew at Pedder after going through the race going with the following sea(westerly)Puker in 10 minutes[xx(] Down to two of us for the day. Here is a pic of the Calgary from just off flattery Buoy Juliet en route to Hawaii in a real big blow, two were air lifted off from injuries, one a chopper pilot broke his arm so bad he can't fly even today. Another lacerated his head off a filing cabinet 70+ stitches and severe concussion...
One of my stories that i will post when i have time is from a good friend on a 60 foot tug through the Race. Sure can be wicked going through there from the Hali grounds back to Cheanuh, one of my reasons for moving to Pedder. The Outfitters Hali Derby in 05 was a ****kicker for us 15+ footers in the dark, big westerly and heavy ebb. We decided run the Passaage to hide out at Albert Head for the day, rather than head West to Jordan River from Cheanuh as planned. French and the boys reported 18 footers at Sheriingham! Got to Bentick and dropped one of our crew at Pedder after going through the race going with the following sea(westerly)Puker in 10 minutes[xx(] Down to two of us for the day. Here is a pic of the Calgary from just off flattery Buoy Juliet en route to Hawaii in a real big blow, two were air lifted off from injuries, one a chopper pilot broke his arm so bad he can't fly even today. Another lacerated his head off a filing cabinet 70+ stitches and severe concussion...
coriba
Active Member
I had a similar experience at Quatsino Sound in my old 18 ft. Double Eagle. Loved that boat. We were about 5 miles offshore from the lighthouse at Winter Harbor fishing halibut. Usually did well there. We (wife, father in law and two dogs) were out most of the day riding the swells, good for jigging. We noticed that in the trough of the swells, we couldn't see land any more. They were getting pretty big. Still a nice day. We packed up around mid afternoon and headed in. At the entrance to the harbor by the lighthouse, there was nothing but white water. Its a pretty big entrance with a shallow rock in the middle that really stirred up the water. I just stared at the white water for a while not sure of what to do. I knew where the channel was and we had a hand held gps so could miss the rocks pretty easy but it was really really rough. All foam. Then another boat passed us and just went in. I followed right behind him hoping he knew what he was doing. All went well but as a novice I was pretty concerned.
I was probably over concerned but I was mostly a novice, still am. I respect the water and the weather.
Dan
I was probably over concerned but I was mostly a novice, still am. I respect the water and the weather.
Dan
coriba
Active Member
I had a similar experience at Quatsino Sound in my old 18 ft. Double Eagle. Loved that boat. We were about 5 miles offshore from the lighthouse at Winter Harbor fishing halibut. Usually did well there. We (wife, father in law and two dogs) were out most of the day riding the swells, good for jigging. We noticed that in the trough of the swells, we couldn't see land any more. They were getting pretty big. Still a nice day. We packed up around mid afternoon and headed in. At the entrance to the harbor by the lighthouse, there was nothing but white water. Its a pretty big entrance with a shallow rock in the middle that really stirred up the water. I just stared at the white water for a while not sure of what to do. I knew where the channel was and we had a hand held gps so could miss the rocks pretty easy but it was really really rough. All foam. Then another boat passed us and just went in. I followed right behind him hoping he knew what he was doing. All went well but as a novice I was pretty concerned.
I was probably over concerned but I was mostly a novice, still am. I respect the water and the weather.
Dan
I was probably over concerned but I was mostly a novice, still am. I respect the water and the weather.
Dan
Hoochiebob
Well-Known Member
We have all heard the stories of wicked waves and nasty squalls from the offshore fishermen,yet I find that most of the close calls seem to happen right in your backyard,so to speak.I'm sure anyone who has fished Sooke can attest to this.
One fine summer morning my father and I launch from Sooke Harbour in his 14ft aluminum,complete with a massive 20 hp engine,and nothing else...no sounder,maps,compass,etc.My father never found the need for these items,being a "true" Sooke fisherman.
Slow morning at Secretary,only one 17# in the boat,so we move out to the tidelines for ho's and slimeys.Sunny,warm and not so much as a gentle breeze.Funny little finger of cloud jutting out from the west.Hmmm
Get into the coho-much more action!Finger now out to Olympic peninsula and pointing east.Hmmm..still sunny and calm."hey dad, check out the cloud".Dad raises eyebrow.
Five minutes later,after a frantic double header,finger now pokes cloud bank to east.Puff of wind."bring 'em up" says dad.By the time the rods are stowed the chop is 2-3ft.Long ways to go to get in.Oh oh!
We both sit on the back bench and get the bow high in the water.We can no longer see the shore or anything else as we are entrenched in a trough 6-8 feet deep!23ft boat passes 15 feet from us as he hightails it in.Everybody is passing us now-and a good thing,we can follow their wash to shore.
3 greenies,1 foot of water in the boat,and 45 minutes of blind navigation and we end up near shore(and that nasty rock by Possession)
Nearly pissed myself.
That was my first taste of the sudden violence a squall creates.
That's why my boat is a 21ft
One fine summer morning my father and I launch from Sooke Harbour in his 14ft aluminum,complete with a massive 20 hp engine,and nothing else...no sounder,maps,compass,etc.My father never found the need for these items,being a "true" Sooke fisherman.
Slow morning at Secretary,only one 17# in the boat,so we move out to the tidelines for ho's and slimeys.Sunny,warm and not so much as a gentle breeze.Funny little finger of cloud jutting out from the west.Hmmm
Get into the coho-much more action!Finger now out to Olympic peninsula and pointing east.Hmmm..still sunny and calm."hey dad, check out the cloud".Dad raises eyebrow.
Five minutes later,after a frantic double header,finger now pokes cloud bank to east.Puff of wind."bring 'em up" says dad.By the time the rods are stowed the chop is 2-3ft.Long ways to go to get in.Oh oh!
We both sit on the back bench and get the bow high in the water.We can no longer see the shore or anything else as we are entrenched in a trough 6-8 feet deep!23ft boat passes 15 feet from us as he hightails it in.Everybody is passing us now-and a good thing,we can follow their wash to shore.
3 greenies,1 foot of water in the boat,and 45 minutes of blind navigation and we end up near shore(and that nasty rock by Possession)
Nearly pissed myself.
That was my first taste of the sudden violence a squall creates.
That's why my boat is a 21ft
Hoochiebob
Well-Known Member
We have all heard the stories of wicked waves and nasty squalls from the offshore fishermen,yet I find that most of the close calls seem to happen right in your backyard,so to speak.I'm sure anyone who has fished Sooke can attest to this.
One fine summer morning my father and I launch from Sooke Harbour in his 14ft aluminum,complete with a massive 20 hp engine,and nothing else...no sounder,maps,compass,etc.My father never found the need for these items,being a "true" Sooke fisherman.
Slow morning at Secretary,only one 17# in the boat,so we move out to the tidelines for ho's and slimeys.Sunny,warm and not so much as a gentle breeze.Funny little finger of cloud jutting out from the west.Hmmm
Get into the coho-much more action!Finger now out to Olympic peninsula and pointing east.Hmmm..still sunny and calm."hey dad, check out the cloud".Dad raises eyebrow.
Five minutes later,after a frantic double header,finger now pokes cloud bank to east.Puff of wind."bring 'em up" says dad.By the time the rods are stowed the chop is 2-3ft.Long ways to go to get in.Oh oh!
We both sit on the back bench and get the bow high in the water.We can no longer see the shore or anything else as we are entrenched in a trough 6-8 feet deep!23ft boat passes 15 feet from us as he hightails it in.Everybody is passing us now-and a good thing,we can follow their wash to shore.
3 greenies,1 foot of water in the boat,and 45 minutes of blind navigation and we end up near shore(and that nasty rock by Possession)
Nearly pissed myself.
That was my first taste of the sudden violence a squall creates.
That's why my boat is a 21ft
One fine summer morning my father and I launch from Sooke Harbour in his 14ft aluminum,complete with a massive 20 hp engine,and nothing else...no sounder,maps,compass,etc.My father never found the need for these items,being a "true" Sooke fisherman.
Slow morning at Secretary,only one 17# in the boat,so we move out to the tidelines for ho's and slimeys.Sunny,warm and not so much as a gentle breeze.Funny little finger of cloud jutting out from the west.Hmmm
Get into the coho-much more action!Finger now out to Olympic peninsula and pointing east.Hmmm..still sunny and calm."hey dad, check out the cloud".Dad raises eyebrow.
Five minutes later,after a frantic double header,finger now pokes cloud bank to east.Puff of wind."bring 'em up" says dad.By the time the rods are stowed the chop is 2-3ft.Long ways to go to get in.Oh oh!
We both sit on the back bench and get the bow high in the water.We can no longer see the shore or anything else as we are entrenched in a trough 6-8 feet deep!23ft boat passes 15 feet from us as he hightails it in.Everybody is passing us now-and a good thing,we can follow their wash to shore.
3 greenies,1 foot of water in the boat,and 45 minutes of blind navigation and we end up near shore(and that nasty rock by Possession)
Nearly pissed myself.
That was my first taste of the sudden violence a squall creates.
That's why my boat is a 21ft
E
El Pescador
Guest
Some seven years ago, I went fishing for first time (and, so far, the only time) to Kelsey Bay with a friend. On my 17.5 ft Double Eagle with an inboard-outboard Volvo 4-cylinder, we went to Hardwicke and West Thurlow Islands; and after a not too successful fishing day, we decided to return to Kelsey Bay. Then, half-way between Helmcken Island and Kelsey Bay, I saw ahead of me what it looked like a static tsunami: a wave several feet high that was there but not moving. I have heard of rip tides before, but had never actually seen one. The current was pretty strong (I understood later where the names “Current Passage” and “Race Passage” came from) and I didn’t know the area. I recall the wind was on our back and the wave was ahead of us. I was not too sure of which way to go, but my gut feeling was telling me to stay away from the wave. My friend obviously did not understand the danger and encouraged me to go towards the wave and take it at 45º. Normally I obey my instincts but for some reason I listened to my friend and decided to go through the wave. Big mistake!!! I am unsure of what exactly happened, but I recall a big mountain of water hitting the windshield and going over the boat’s hard top, then the boat span around and the engine stalled. It felt for a few seconds like being on a roller coaster, then I realized we were still afloat, away from the rip tide and drifting, with the engine well and part of the deck full of water. I had 1500 gallon per hour bilge pump installed on a float switch, and it was doing its job very well, for all the water was pumped out in a few minutes. I didn’t manage to start the main engine right away, but I was more successful with the 9.9 high trust Yammy I had for a kicker. A fish boat came to assist us, but I let them know we were OK. After awhile, I managed to start the main engine and made it safely back to port.
I learned several lessons that day. One of them was to avoid rip tides at any cost, and another other one was to follow my gut feeling at sea, unless I am with someone far more experienced than I am in that particular area. Also, I though it would be prudent to start shopping for a larger boat.
Today, I go fishing on a 22’ Double Eagle.
I learned several lessons that day. One of them was to avoid rip tides at any cost, and another other one was to follow my gut feeling at sea, unless I am with someone far more experienced than I am in that particular area. Also, I though it would be prudent to start shopping for a larger boat.
Today, I go fishing on a 22’ Double Eagle.
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