As lovely as Princess Louisa is, we had to move on: a small power boat rendezvous for Easter weekend and we simply couldn’t bear to have more boats in the anchorage. Plus, no fishing was allowed there so if one had a fishing license like GB had, why bother futzing about? There was no point any more in drinking in so much beauty.
We departed Princess Louisa 6.April, having successfully cleared Malibu Rapids a second time at high-water slack. The Reaches were expectedly calm so it was another all-day motoring extravaganza. We intended to anchor at 40 miles distant at the Harmony Islands, but wound up anchoring a bit further out in Maude Bay, a wee cove that’s a part of the greater Thunder Bay at the mouth of Jervis Inlet. Maude Bay was a very nice anchorage. Lots of waterfowl at the height of the mating season (i.e., lots of action if you know what I mean); there was even an immature bald eagle perched on a large driftwood log calling to his parents. The only negative was…the onshore residents’ habit of burning all their winter’s detritus, all at once, everywhere. Dude, they smoked up all 30 miles of Jervis Inlet plus all 30 miles of Malaspina Strait with the smoke from 30 debris piles. Like, feh. But how else does one so isolated get rid of a winter’s accumulation of trash?
Given the calm air we chose to motor ever northward the next morning along the mainland coast to see a bit of Desolation Sound, another prime BC cruising ground. April is still very cold and early so we did not expect to have much company, and indeed that was the case. We drove northward along Malaspina Strait and then east and then immediately south around Sarah Point past aquacultures aplenty to Grace Harbour, a sheltered bay bisected into two smaller bays. The guidebooks tell us that in the summer Grace Harbour is full of boats. April, however, is a different story: we had the whole area to ourselves, so that we could take our half out of the middle of the inner bay’s glassy water without stern-tying. Nice. And quiet. 
This cruising lifestyle is quite conducive to restful slumber in proper weather conditions, despite the rather…frosty mornings. (Nothing like seeing yer breath when you greet the dawn, and your mate.)
Moving on, we aimed for another summertime cruising mecca: Prideaux Haven, famed in song and story. Muriel was here often and wrote about it.* In NW waters one has to avoid many obstacles including 
logs and a multitude of rocks at the entrances to otherwise very protected anchorages
– and getting to Prideaux was no exception. Once there, I tried to convince GB to go ashore to see if we could find Mike the Logger’s old place, or the ruins of Phil Levine’s cabin over Laura Cove way — but he would have none of it and preferred exploring the shoreline, islets and oyster beds by dinghy. Such a pretty place, even in the cold early season. 
The last night we were there (11. April) the clouds parted and we saw ever so many stars. It was as close to wilderness as we used to get backpacking. And we had it all to ourselves. A couple boats came in and anchored in their own private nooks, but by then we had resolved to leave the next morning so it was as if we were still alone with the water and the trees. Here’s how poetic I can wax in such a place:
"Prideaux Haven Evening. April 9, 2007. 5:00pm. Low tide. Early spring, after rain showers.
One other sailboat just arrived; they very considerately anchored away from us, around the point over in Melanie Cove. Like us, they are keeping to themselves this evening. Otherwise we are the only boat here in what is ordinarily a very crowded summer anchorage, and we are grateful for the gift of solitude. This evening there is no sound of human presence. To the northeast, up along Homfray Channel, the mountain peaks are dusted with new snow on top of old snow pack, and are intermittently losing their heads in light rain clouds. Occasional evening sun breaks reveal how the deep the green is of the forests that run straight down to the water’s edge. I see two waterfalls on one of the bluffs a few miles away, plunging a thousand feet or so off the mountain and down to the sea. All the rock faces are steep here – above, and below, the water. After a thin edge of shallows the granite walls plunge straight down past one’s ability to see. Here, the waters very quickly become dark and deep. In the protected coves they are also silent.
Standing on deck as rain clouds overtake the fading sun, I hear a soft “pssssht,” “pssssht,” “pssssht.” Turning, I see a lone harbor seal a few yards away, floating on the cove’s surface and inspecting me and the Fox. A couple of seagulls argue over a starfish one has caught. One bald eagle perches in a high deadhead on a nearby islet, then flies away, whistling. From Melanie Cove, I hear the sound of a small stream as winter runoff meets the salt water of the cove. The boat is at rest, the weather has paused, and Desolation Sound is there to be seen. I wonder whether Mike the logger had the opportunity, some 75 years ago, to look up from his work at his cabin and apple orchard at the head of Melanie Cove, and enjoy a time like this.
I hope so.”
– m
* "The Curve of Time" – again. Read it or I’ll keep mentioning it, I swear.
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