The Octopus Islands and not one in sight

by Rosemary Sanderson on 28 Sep 2017 The sea lions were hanging out on the buoy, soaking up the sunshine, so Peter slowed and brought Blue Horizon in closer. They raised their heads, long necked and bleary eyed and one fell off backwards, looking just like an old-timer being ejected from the bar after a hard night out. “Last in, first out,” said Peter, as the determined fellow took several attempts to clamber back on and force a space between his grunting companions. We cheered as he made it and turned back to our course.

“Octopus Islands next,” said Peter. “Named, of course, for the giant Octopus that lives there.” He grinned at me as the tree lined slopes of the conifer clad islands closed in on either side. Surface swirls and ripples hinted at the turmoil to come for the Surge Narrows as we were fifteen minutes late and already with two knots of current against us. In the still air, he powered up the motor and a soft rain splattered small raindrops on the cockpit cover. Having joined my brother-in-law Peter on his Bavaria 35 in Comox on Vancouver Island two days previously we were making our way to his dream destination, the remote cruising grounds that comprise the Broughtons, a thick scattering of islands that lie between northern Vancouver Island and the wild coastal ranges of mainland British Columbia.

We meandered into the islets and dropped the hook by a pretty tree-clad mound, with other islets nearby, like a little explorers’ paradise. Time for son Rory to lower the dinghy from its perch on the back of the yacht and row us to the nearest islet. We climbed up the small hill to the top to find a wooden bench that looks out over our anchorage and beside it the treasure of a discarded hip flask. We left it for a future explorer, after Rory had checked that it was indeed empty and we admired the view while David sat and drew. A dozen kayakers, retired people with a guide, went past us as we stood on the hillside and shouted out in that friendly Canadian way: “Where are you from?” “England.” That seemed to please them.

With Rory back in the kayak and me in the rowing boat, we circled the islet, enjoying the still water and clear air. I placed the oars carefully, enjoying sharing the peace with a heron on shore before returning to Blue Horizon.

As evening fell, we sat on deck, studying the colours of the ranges of hills, from the distant milky grey blues that almost blended with the clouds to the gradually darkening deep green ranges, still washed with milky white. A couple of firs were poised on the outcrop of rock nearby, at a jaunty rake, and the still water reflected the yellow green of the mossy shore. “The forecast isn’t good for Johnston Strait,” says Peter. “It is blowing North-Westerlies, but if we wait here for a day, we should have a South-Easterly that will take us up the channel towards the Broughtons.”

Friday 8 September Waiatt Bay, Octopus Islands

A lone swallow flies past. Today we anchored in nearby Waiatt Bay, along with another motorboat and rowed to the shore, over the top of a clam midden, where ancient peoples farmed the clams and discarded generations of shells. We followed a soft pine needle path through the trees up and down the hill. Peter, Rory and I hiked on uphill, getting hot and sweaty as Rory set the pace, his long legs stretching out, like a deer, leaving David behind in the thick woods to do some sketching.

Up and up we went through the trees, ducking under some and climbing over others that had fallen over the path. Forty minutes later we glimpsed dark water to our right through the trees. We skirted round the edge and clambered up a granite cliff. Changing quickly at the top, we scrambled down and, with a brief hello to the two fellow boaters who were sitting on it, we jumped into the clear cool water of Newton Lake and washed away the sweat of the climbing. We were in a caldera of water, trees, rocks, cloudy sky. We picnicked on top of the cliff and, with a few snaps to commemorate the occasion, we made our swift descent.

Rory reads his book on the foredeck, shirt off, wafting away a curious wasp. The hills are topped with the green pricked tops of the conifers. In the September sunlight the only sounds are the craw of a large grey heron as it flies from the shore. A wasp buzzes in lazily, checking us out for sugary treats. The water is emerald green fading to almost black with silver ripples and mirror like patches to where the sun catches the surface and sprinkles it with glitter and dark shadows. The trees reflect in the water with hints of lemon yellow and shimmering rusty smears. A few early autumn dead leaves drift on the surface of the water. White seed pods drift past like little white helicopters. A small bird chirrups as it flutters along the shore line and lands on the branch of a pine. The yacht drifts lazily, at anchor in the light air as the currents of the full tide gently push it to and fro. In the cockpit, Peter and David have their heads together over a cruising guide.

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“Tomorrow we will get up at six o’clock,” he says. “We will get halfway up Johnson Strait. There is a set of rapids here. That is the second set. The first set is right here. Beasley Rapids. If we left here then we could get early through the rapids and get to Chonat Bay. There is an anchorage there, open to westerly but it is supposed to be South-East tomorrow. If not, there is one here - Minstrel Island. You could always duck in behind there. We need to be there before dark. It is weedy, but we could anchor there.”

We left at six fifteen pm and, under motor, passed both sets of Beasley Rapids, with three knots against on the first set and half a knot against on the second set. At seven thirty-eight pm we dropped anchor in forty feet in empty Chonat Bay. This is now unfamiliar territory for Peter and together we are excited at the prospect of being well on our way to the spectacular cruising ground that is the Broughtons.