We left Bamfield in Barkley Sound, BC, on August 5, 2007, at 0600. Environment Canada and NOAA characterized the 1-4-mile visibility fog as “heavy.” The Fox does not like fog very much but it was doable so we left with caution and a good dose of radar – the better to see the buckaroos who were sport fishing for salmon in their power boats. At full throttle. A mere three miles offshore from Barkley Sound, one boat full of these yahoos almost rear-ended us going 20 knots. In fog, I emphasize. What is it with these guys?
As described in previous posts we maneuvered through the usual heavy fogbound commercial traffic entering and leaving the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and had a close encounter with a BOC at the center of the Precautionary Zone. MS took the typical cliché photo of us passing by Tatoosh Island and Cape Flattery, Washington – a hallmark of every boater’s transit of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully though visibility generally remained limited. We moved offshore about 15-20 miles to avoid entangling the Fox’s propeller in the many crab pots that commercial fishers have placed between the shore and the 320-foot depth. Night fell, and with the remaining fog restricting visibility, it fell hard. So black, we could not distinguish the line where the water met the sky. And then, at midnight, we encountered the first of the tuna boats. These are commercial trollers and longliners who place their boats on autopilot, drive at 15 knots, and head offshore about 20 to 30 miles, following courses preset into their vessels’ GPS systems – regardless of who might be in the way…like a slow, hapless sailboat just trying to get by. We first encountered such a vessel 20 miles offshore from Grays Harbor, Washington, and it became clear from his radar track that he was on a collision course with us regardless of how we changed position. In addition to the steaming lights we already had on, we turned on every other light the Fox had and used a spotlight to illuminate the main sail. We tried hailing the fishing boat on VHF when he was about 2 miles away to ask him whether he intended to pass us on our stern, or cross our bow. On the third hail (now he was ½ mile away and the third hail was a bit more insistent than the first two) he finally replied that he saw us on his radar and would pass us to our stern. And then?
He crossed our bow with about 100 feet to spare. (Gee, thanks, Mister. And a big middle finger right back at ya.)
Throughout the night we saw lights near and far of all the trollers and longliners huntin’ the elusive tuna. The radar, ‘twas full o’ blips. The next close encounter was on GB’s watch when at 0600 about 13 miles offshore from the Columbia River a sport fishing boat came so close to the Fox that before veering off at the last moment GB could read the logos on the passengers’ baseball caps. And if you knew how poor GB’s eyesight is you’d appreciate how that was more of a George Carlin “near-hit” than a near-miss.
Long story somewhat shorter, we encountered the heaviest boat traffic more miles offshore than we expected, and all of it at night. Another boat’s crew we met later had taken a more inshore route (the “crab pot free zone“) and encountered no tuna boats but had a close call with a commercial tug towing a barge. Moral of the story? If you travel up or down the Pacific Coast, your choice is either dodging larger commercial traffic inshore in low visibility and/or at night; or smaller commercial traffic further offshore in low visibility and/or at night. Pick your poison.
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