06/03/2025
May 21st, Day 14 — Rescue Bay → Butedale
Things are great—until they’re not.
And in the moment when life hits a speed bump, there’s no telling how steep the mountain ahead will be until you’ve reached the top.
Waking up in a place like Rescue Bay feels like a dream. It’s quiet, far from the bright lights of shore—no people walking down the dock peering into your home. But that’s the catch-22: you’re alone. If something breaks, you'd better hope you have the part—or at least the ability to limp to your nearest town, where you might be able to find a part or help.
Lucky for us, this morning’s mountains were more like long steep rolling hills.
Annie was scheduled for a 0700 departure. That means the hook is raised and we’re ready to go. We check in on the VHF about five minutes prior to departure, letting everyone know we’re raising anchor.
Then it happened.
The call from C-Otter:
“My engine won’t start.” You could hear the concern cracking through the sleep still in his voice. “Troubleshooting now... batteries are good, motor’s in neutral... I’ve got a couple more things to try...” He trails off.
No one can know your boat better than you. You know where your gremlins lie—the hidden switches, the quirks in the startup sequence that keep your gal content. These beasts we call boats aren’t just vessels; they’re homes. They’re family. They protect us at night and carry the things that make this journey possible.
There’s a deep sense of security in knowing your boat—not just knowing it, but being able to troubleshoot and problem-solve the hiccups along the way. That alone can carry you further than you might believe.
“Is it trying to start, or is there nothing?” Kyle’s voice came through with calmness that blanketed the bay.
What felt like a millennium was, in reality, only seconds.
“Nothing. It’s not even trying,” C-Otter nearly whispered.
“Okay, stand by,” Kyle replied calmly. You could hear the gears turning.
At this point, Kyle and I had already devised a plan without speaking. In moments like these, I swear we’re telepathic. I was at the helm, preparing to set the hook, while he prepped the dinghy for launch.
“She’s fired up! She started!”
I didn’t know Scott could sound that excited so early in the morning.
“That’s great news, C-Otter.” You could hear Kyles smile across the mic—not just relieved we didn’t have to launch the tender, but proud of our participant. There’s a special kind of confidence that comes from wrestling your own gremlins and winning.
The mic cracked to life again.
“I, uh... I’m not sure what it was. I just went through everything again, and it worked this time...” C-Otter trailed off again, almost losing confidence.
“That’s okay, C-Otter. We can go through the sequence of events together tonight. Annie standing by, one-six, six-nine.”
Silence. We’d already climbed a mountain, and it was only 0715.
We continued out of Rescue Bay toward Jackson Narrows, our cut-through to Finlayson Channel. Those needing fuel would stop at Klemtu, while the slower boats would meander up and across Sarah Passage to continue on to Butedale. We all know the little guys outpace us—even with a fuel stop.
Jackson Narrows is exactly that—narrow. From the east side, where we would enter, it looked almost impassable, dauntingly tight.
Lining up single file, we crept in. Small movements, clear communication, and intentionality kept us all moving forward. Just like that, we passed through the cramped corridor.
“All right, you guys, good job. Those that wish to speed ahead are welcome to do so.”
The confidence in Kyle’s voice gave no hint of the mountain we’d faced earlier.
“Roger,” came the chorus of replies over the radio.
Then—
“Uh, Stimpy here to Annie... I seem to be having a problem with my port motor. It doesn’t want to exceed 2,000 RPM.”
Our eyes met. Minds already in motion, cycling through options and ways to assist. Kyle and M/V Stimpy began troubleshooting over the radio—describing symptoms, gathering engine details, and even looking up spares that might be needed.
C-Otter offered to stay with Stimpy and continue to Klemtu as planned, while Pacific Crest pressed forward. Dock space was limited, and even if the repair took a little time, the zippy C-Dorys would catch up in no time.
After doing all we could underway, we decided to pull over too. C-Otter got fuel, and Stimpy and Annie met at the public wharf.
We tied up to what seemed to be an abandoned fishing dock—old, dilapidated, and scattered with gear. Kyle and Bill got to work.
A new symptom had emerged: the motor struggled to shift out of gear while docking.
Kyle walked Bill through the steps—how to troubleshoot, what he suspected was wrong, and why. Cowling off, issue found, fix applied, cowling back on—faster than it took to tie up Annie. Then, off they went for a sea trial. Kyle took the helm. The fix held, and they were pleased with the results.
Turns out the gear linkage had started to come loose—not broken, just nearly detached. It was still just functional enough to allow for forward propulsion, but not enough to get past 2,000 RPM.
On his way back to Annie from the fuel dock, Kyle stopped at the grocery store. We didn’t need anything, but it’s good to know what’s there—and there was a lot. Fresh fruit and veggies, ample dry goods; a surprisingly well-stocked temporary setup, considering the main store is under construction.
Mountain number two; climbed. And it was only 0930.
Annie departed the public wharf and continued up the west side of Cone Island. Our destination: Butedale.
That night, we dined in Annie’s cockpit—no bugs and no rain made the weather too good to pass up. Captain’s Hour was long and full of laughter. We talked about weather, tools to predict weather, and how to read pressure systems. Of course, we wandered off-topic, but I’m sure someone could follow the breadcrumbs through our conversations.
It was the end of a beautiful day in a nearly eerie, deserted cannery—full of history and stories we could only begin to imagine.
Cheers,
Ashley; mountain climber, cannery explorer, waterfall chaser
