30,000 Islands, Two Small Boats

[WI-Tom]

On with day five. Fog. On Hen Island itself the sky was surprisingly clear, but out on the water it was fogged in. So, what to do?

If my brother was going to get back to work, we would have to get back to Killarney by the day after tomorrow. (This is why I hate deadlines. As a teacher, with summers off, I usually don't have to worry about that. I just stay ashore until it's reasonable to continue, even if it's days). But we were still about 18 straight-line miles away, and had counted on making some more miles before camping. Of course neither of us were keen to head out in the fog, particularly since we'd have to skirt the southern edge of The Chickens for the first two miles. But, if we ran into stiff westerlies, it wouldn't exactly be easy to make those 18 miles of westing.

Day 5.6.jpg

The fog, at least, seemed fairly localized--it was shifting around, sometimes east, sometimes west, never covering the whole sky. We stayed ashore and watched it. Visibility down to under a quarter mile for sure (we couldn't see the shore from the island, not at all), and probably much less.

[WI-Tom]

It might have been a couple of hours ashore, watching the fog bank shift back and forth from east to west, before the fog seemed to withdraw way back to the horizon to the southeast, leaving our westerly route clear. If we were going to go, now was the time. We went. It was a bad idea.

[WI-Tom]

What we didn't know was that, all the time we had been on Hen Island, completely protected from the south and west, big swells had been building from the southwest. So, we set out rowing up the bay between the drumsticks, rounded Hen Island to the east, and worked our way down to the SW corner of the island where, once clear of some big rocks, I expected we'd be able to raise our sails and start heading west.

There was definitely some SW wind, but not a scary amount, as we rounded the island. Enough that I tied in the first reef, but no more than that. In retrospect, we must have missed the peak of the winds, because the strength of the wind didn't at all match the size of the waves we were about to find ourselves in. I was mostly thinking through how to be efficient when I raised the sail--this is my usual order of operations:

1. Ready the sail bundle, connect sheet to clew (I use a snaplink), make sure the downhaul was ready--I did all this before leaving the beach.
2. Row the bow into the wind, mostly, but on a slight starboard tack.
3. Drop the centerboard.
4. Row the bow back into the wind (it falls off fairly quickly).
5. Pull the port oar out of the lock and stow it on the starboard side bench, out of the way of the sail bundle; leave the starboard oar dangling in the lock for final adjustments before hoisting.
6. Drop the rudder.
7. Hoist the sail and set the downhaul.
8. Sheet in and start sailing.
9. Pull the starboard oar out of the oarlock and stow it on the port side bench.

So, thinking through all that, I wasn't paying attention to the waves. I had a vague sense that there were some, and that they were non-trivial, but we were still in partial shelter on Hen Island's east side. Lance was behind me. I think I kind of assumed that the size of the waves was because we were on the edge of the shallow shelf of The Chickens, and that once offshore, things would calm down.

Right about here (red X):

Day 5.5.jpg

I moved into my hoisting routine, going fast because there wasn't a lot of sea room. Just as I finished hoisting the sail all the way and tightened the downhaul, I heard Lance call, "Are we about to do something stupid here?"

Too late. The boat was sailing. And there were some very big waves just seconds away, a big swell rolling in from the southwest--big enough that I had to steer carefully to take them at a good angle. Judgments about wave heights are notoriously unreliable, particularly from the perspective of someone in a small boat, but the crests were well over my head. I was off sailing, on a starboard tack, heading southeast. A few seconds later I saw the Phoenix III sail go up the mast (the waves were big enough that I couldn't see the hull at all). We were both in it.

[WI-Tom]

There was very little time to make a decision. The waves were big and steep enough, and rocks all around, that I didn't want to risk a gybe to sail back toward Hen Island. There wasn't much sea room. For the moment, on the right heading, the boat would do fine. And very quickly we were far enough away for turning back to not be a smart option. Instead, I kept sailing south(ish) on a starboard tack. If I could make enough southing to be well clear of The Chickens when I tacked back west, I hoped that the waves would be much smaller, in deeper water.

Luckily, as mentioned, the wind speed did not match the size of the waves. I was a little becalmed in the troughs, and about right on the crests. (And that alone tells me these must have been some of the biggest waves I've been in with a small boat--big enough to block a lot of wind in the troughs). The boat was doing fine. I didn't really like the conditions, but it seemed best to keep going and, at all costs, avoid pilot error. A mistake could cause a capsize, I figured, but without mistakes, I thought that we'd most likely be fine.

It was definitely full-attention sailing--one hand on the sheet, one on the tiller. No opportunity to bail (and yes, spray was coming aboard but not too bad yet).

After what I judged was a little more than a mile, I found a relatively small set of waves and tacked to the new westward heading, well clear (I hoped) of the southern edge of The Chickens and the shallow water there.

[WI-Tom]

The tack went smoothly enough, and then I was heading generally west, trying to edge as far south as I could to put more room between myself and The Chickens. But it was a struggle to even manage anything close to due west--I had to maintain steerage at all costs, so couldn't really afford to pinch (not that pinching ever works really well anyway with a traditional lugsail).

Scary stuff, but there wasn't really time to be scared enough to feel it. Just total focus on not messing up. Every now and then a much bigger wave would come along. Sometimes the crest of a wave would break into the boat. Pretty soon I was ankle-deep in cold water, unable to let go to bail.

Still, doing OK. Up ahead, barely visible, was a low lump on the horizon that I recognized as Hawk Island--the high granite-domed island we had stopped at on the way east, on day one.

Day 5.7.jpg

Hawk Island! The cobblestone beach on the north side would be perfectly sheltered in these conditions. And it was on a heading I could almost kind of hold, given the wind and waves. About six miles away. It seemed like a much better option than trying to find my way through the shoals of a lee shore on the mainland. I headed that way, pretty sure that Lance would recognize what I was up to and follow along. I could see the Phoenix III behind me when we were both on a wave crest, and he seemed to be doing fine. There was no easy way for me to slow down and wait, because I needed to keep moving for steering into the waves.

[WI-Tom]

With all the decisions made, it got a bit more relaxing. I thought we'd probably make it if the wind didn't suddenly increase.

More and more water coming aboard, more than ankle deep now, but not enough to really affect the handling. But then the steering suddenly got harder, and I looked back to see that the rudder blade had kicked halfway up. I tried holding the sheet in my teeth and using the uphaul line, but couldn't pull it up. And no chance to hang over the transom and do it manually. I tried to steer as gently as possible, knowing that a broken tiller would be disastrous at this point.

Eventually I noticed the waves seemed to be dying down. I figured we must be out of the shoaling shelf south of the Chickens and into deep water. Now I was able to steer directly for Hawk Island.

Slowly things calmed down from full-attention scary to merely exciting, then on to perfectly reasonable--calm enough that I was able to luff up and wait for Lance to catch up. And while I did that, I also put the rudder blade back down, bailed out the boat, and sponged it dry (mostly). We had made it!

The rest of the way to Hawk Island was smooth easy sailing--I even managed a few photos:

5.27.jpg

And then...

[WI-Tom]

About a mile before we reached Hawk Island, the wind disappeared in a sudden lull that left our sails flapping around aimlessly. After a couple of minutes Lance dropped his sail and started rowing directly to Hawk Island. I was about to follow suit when I saw a dark rippling line of wind approaching--approaching fast!--from the west. Instead of dropping my sail, I sheeted in and got ready.

Boom! A strong west wind and I was off on a port tack. Really too windy for just one reef but I wasn't going to stop to put in another one now. I started tacking my way toward Hawk Island. Gusty gusty strong winds. But the waves were no more than a mild chop, so no worries. (It was a cold long beat, though).

This photo ought to tell you something about the relative VMG of rowing directly to windward vs. tacking into a stiff headwind:

5.28.jpg

But we were both ashore safely after a long long day. 'Nuff said.

5.29.jpg

[Paul Pless]

no photos showing in posts 75, 76, 77

[WI-Tom]

no photos showing in posts 75, 76, 77

Got to love the photo posting glitches...

I think they're back now.

Tom

[WI-Tom]

And gone again...

I'll keep trying.

Tom

[Toxophilite]

Great stuff! Thanks for taking the time to post it.

An ex-girlfriend/lead singer's (oops) family used to own a small island on Georgia bay and we spent a few summers there. Beautiful area. I wish I could explore it by small boat but it's a little far away from Vancouver. That was before my sailing days. They had a small tinny with a 4hp on it that we would use to get out to the Island, (Starr Island) launching from Honey Harbour.

[Ron Williamson]

Dan,

I agree with your comments, and Dave's, about potential weather hazards. I was pinned down by high winds for 3 days (coincidence?) in Black Bay on one of my earlier trips. It would have been virtually impossible to go anywhere on the water in my little boat; even rowing in flat water in those winds would not be sustainable. When I finally did set out, I only managed a few miles under oars that first day (still windy, no rain, no patience to stay in place) before I had to find another spot to hide out in. My tent didn't stand up too well, either, as it really needed to be staked out--but I was on granite so the best I could do was tie big rocks to it. Even then, I spent most of one night holding up the tent from inside. That said, it's generally very friendly to small boats if you stick close to shelter and stay ashore when you need to.

As for nomenclature, of course the Thirty Thousand Islands is only a small part of Georgian Bay--we only had 7 days, and boats that at their very best, in favorable winds, might manage 6 knots at peak speed, average more like 3-4 knots, maybe. Obviously there's a difference between the open water of this big arm of Lake Huron, and hugging the shore. But hugging the shore is what sail-and-oar boats mostly do, at least when I'm driving them. And those shores are the shores of Georgian Bay, eh? I'm not sure what else I'd call it.

I agree that the mosquitoes have not been as bad as old stories make them sound. I've had only one bad mosquito night when I anchored out and slept aboard without bug netting for my boat tent, back almost 10 years ago now. Otherwise, as long as you have a tent to escape to when dark hits, they haven't been a problem for me at all. Certainly not at all during the daylight hours. Often not even at night; once you get past the initial swarms at first dark they often disappear.

The advantage a small boat like ours has is that it can tuck way in close to shore, surrounded by land on almost all sides. Even in that 3-day blow where I was stuck, the boat was never in any danger at all (though I did have to bail it out a few times from the rain). It's hard to sink a boat that's tied to shore in shin-deep water.

Tom

As for nomenclature,we call that area,"The north shore". I have no idea what others call it.
In my little brain,Georgian Bay is east of Little Current, all of Fitzwilliam Island, Cove Island and Tobermory.


I got a sick feeling when you described the big leftover rollers.
We've been in several similar bad situations with no solution better than moving forward to shelter,praying that it won't get worse.
R

[Jfitzger]

My first time in the People and places tab. I'm really enjoying your trip stories and photos. Great inspiration for this summer.

[WI-Tom]

Thanks for the comments, everyone. As I said, day five was probably the most memorable of the trip. Fog. Big waves. A tough beat in strong gusty winds.

The reward for all that nonsense was this campsite, high on the shoulder of Hawk Island, just below the main summit. Not a bad way to begin day six. Looking east:

6.14.jpg

And south:

6.13.jpg

A long hike up from the beach, but not all that bad. One thing I love about trips like this is that life takes the time it takes.

[Jack Loudon]

Thanks for continuing the narrative. Great scenery, beautiful photos, interesting reading. I'm envious of your tideless waters (and no, 6 inches doesn't count!), as tides & currents are constantly on our minds where I live.

Posts 74-77 were instructive and familiar; too much weather and not enough hands to do all that needs to be done. I've made a couple of improvements to hopefully mitigate this on my boat.

Agree that smooth granite isn't bad to sleep on, and can retain some warmth from the sun.

[pez_leon]

I'm with you both - I sleep better on granite than on my own mattress at home, though some of that may be how worn out I usually am after a long day on the rocks.

I just love these last two soft morning pictures. I'll join Jeff in saying that I see a trip up this way in my future, perhaps in conjunction with a visit to family in the Midwest. Maybe even a stop at one of those great high-plains or desert lakes on the way home. What a month that would be.

Thanks again, Tom!


- James

[WI-Tom]

Thanks again for the comments--I really do enjoy reliving a trip here on the WBF with people who are interested in this kind of thing. In my family, it's pretty much my brother and I--everyone else might pretend to pay attention if I try to talk about what a trip is like, but their hearts just ain't in it.

On with day six. Windy!

Very very windy, actually. So much so that there wasn't even any question of heading out in the morning. Instead, lots of hanging around camp waiting for the wind to die down, which it showed no signs of doing (in fact, it seemed to be getting stronger--pretty much straight out of the west, making Killarney a dead beat, 11 or 12 miles to windward).

Day 6.1.jpg

We didn't need to reach the cars until the next day, so there was no immediate hurry anyway. I was thinking the breeze might die down in the afternoon, and we'd sail 3 or 4 miles to the Fox Islands and find a nice little sheltered anchorage for our last night on Georgian Bay.

[WI-Tom]

We spent the day amusing ourselves on shore--the boats were still perfectly sheltered on the north-side beach, because a low rocky headland stuck out northward just west of the beach, keeping all the waves out.

There was a little wind shelter just above camp. We spent some time hanging out there, looking at charts, imagining where we'd go if things calmed down enough to set out.

6.15.jpg

I also took the opportunity to dry all the clothes that had gotten soaked on the passage from Hen Island. Somehow I had managed to set out into the biggest waves of the trip without putting on my perfectly nice--wonderful, really--foul weather gear (a set of West Marine bibs I found on the clearance rack, excellent stuff, topped by a decent-ish rain jacket). And once in the waves, I hadn't had any chance to put them on. So, yep. I finished that 6-7 mile crossing very, very wet.

6.16.jpg

[WI-Tom]

We also crossed over to the eastern lobe of Hawk Island to have a look-see--this lower dome is connected by a narrow isthmus from the main peak, and we hadn't ventured over there on our day-one explorations.

6.17.jpg

Very very windy--whitecaps-all-over, blow-the-hat-from-your-head kind of windy. Back at camp just before heading over for this walk to the east arm of the island, I had let the nylon bag for my tent slip out of my hands. Oops. Gone.

At the foot of the cliffs, though, Lance found the bag where it had snagged on a rock or bush, and gave it back to me. Then, on the summit of the eastern arm, I let it slip out of my hands again. Oops. Gone again, for real this time.

It turns out this eastern side of the island is where all the gulls make their homes. They were not happy with our intrusion. We soon saw why--the entire surface of the rock was covered with young not-yet-flying gull chicks, hundreds of them. They were huddling in the lee of whatever features in the rock they could find.

6.18.jpg

Cute! We left and headed back to the main island so we didn't stress them out too bad. Funny how there were virtually no gulls on the main part of the island. Predators? But any predator could easily cross over to the gull side. A bit of a mystery.

[WI-Tom]

Well, the day stayed windy. We hung out at the beach. We cooked meals. We wandered around. I climbed back up to the main summit, where the wind was strong enough to lean forward at a crazy angle without falling over.

The day got cold. Colder. Darker. We kept hoping the wind would let up a bit. It didn't.

6.19.jpg

Well, we'd be fine if the next day was better--12 miles back to the car, that could be half a day's sail. But if strong westerlies continued? We were both hoping we could make just a few miles of westward progress and move camp a bit closer.

Finally, early in the evening (almost 5:00 p.m. by the time stamp on my photos), there was a hint of a hint of a slight lull in the wind. Lance theorized that the wind dropping off like this was the harbinger of a wind shift toward the south, favorable for us. It sounded hopeful (and doubtful) to both of us. But we had been waiting all day, and we were ready.

We went for it. Another bad call.

[WI-Tom]

Lance got off the beach first, and sailed out past the big rock guarding the entrance to our quiet sheltered anchorage. Wham! Wind. Big big wind. Fortunately I'm not entirely stupid, and had double-reefed before heading offshore.

I was right behind Lance, but slipped too close to the rock to make it in one go, so I had to tack to the starboard tack to get a bit of distance--just a few boatlengths--before tacking back again to head offshore. During those tacks, I lost track of the Phoenix III.

This was a fierce fierce wind, but not so much for waves. Partly that was because the islands just west limited the fetch, and maybe partly because the wind had only picked up recently and waves hadn't had time to build.

That said, the Alaska was pushed rail-down again and again. This isn't so much a capsize risk--there is a lot of final stability in that hull, and taking water over the rail is not a sign of imminent capsize--but it made for very slow going, and a very wet ride. (Of course I had once again neglected to put on my lovely foul weather gear, and was sailing in a reasonably windproof fleece top (not bad) and jeans (not good). I was thoroughly wet and cold, very quickly.

Still, I didn't feel any real or immediate danger. But the mainland--the nearest opportunity for shelter--was a mile-and-a-half away. And I wasn't making any progress toward the west anyway. And I had no idea where Lance was (as it turns out, he was already back on the beach, safe and sheltered, by this point). So, after being pushed rail-down half a dozen times, I tried to tack. Nope. Couldn't get up enough speed. These were very windy winds, might have been pushing 25-30 knots in the gusts (which were almost constant). It had been a Very Bad Idea Indeed to come out.

So, finally, I headed up, dropped the rig, and deployed the oars. Things immediately calmed down--the waves were nowhere near big enough to be a threat to the boat once the sail was down. But...

It was going to be a looooong row back to Hawk Island. And so it was:

6.11.jpg

Lots and lots of wind to row against. I just kept on, short strokes. Hard rowing, but making slow progress. It was kind of keeping me warm, anyway.

6.10.jpg

Eventually I made it back to the beach. Cold and wet. Definitely cold and wet enough to feel some loss of drive and mental acuity, some shivering going on. But we were both safe on shore again.

For now...

[WI-Tom]

Well, I was cold and wet and tired out. I would've happily crawled into my tent for the night. Except:

1. We had packed up the tents and gear aboard our boats when we left.
2. The wind shift which we had theorized would move southerly had instead moved northerly, and seemed like it was swinging more northerly still. Which was bringing some significant wave action into our no-longer-so-protected anchorage on the north side of Hawk Island.

It seemed likely that by the night, the cobblestone beach would no longer be a safe place to leave our boats. Certainly not with our tents back up near the summit, much too far way to keep watch on things.

So, despite the extreme (and extremely) gusty NW wind, we set out (under oars) to circle the island and, with luck, find a sheltered anchorage on the south side. (It seems like it's stretching it a bit to call the places we overnight "anchorages," since we mostly tie the bow to shore and hold the stern off with an anchor. But, I'm not sure what else to call it).

Day 6.4.jpg

The first shallow bay on the west side--nope. Not nearly sheltered enough, and no obvious tent sites.

Next we rowed down to the narrow inlet on the island's SE side. Again, nope. Too wavy. No good landing spots. At this point I would have been happy to anchor and sleep aboard (cold, wet, tired), but the waves were too much, and probably not room to anchor two boats in such a narrow bay.

Finally we rowed back to a shallow bay on the south side--near where we had climbed down to just above the shore on day one. It wasn't ideal, but it was pretty much sheltered from all but smaller refracted waves bending around the corner. Very rocky, and a bit tricky to arrange a landing spot where the boat wouldn't be hitting bottom, but the crew could get out in shallow(ish) water.

6.22.jpg

Neither of us had a painter or shore line long enough to reach the nearest trees or boulders. I solved that problem by burying my #6 Northill anchor (12 lbs) under a huge pile of rocks not far above the waterline. As for the Phoenix III--substantially lighter than the Alaska, maybe around 170 lbs empty--we managed to lift it entirely out of the water onto a rock slab, using a couple of sticks for rollers under the keel.

6.21.jpg

[WI-Tom]

We did manage to find a flat(ish) ledge above the beach with room for two tents. Finally, by around 10:30 p.m., I was able to crawl into my tent to warm up and get some sleep. (Photo is from the next morning).

6.23.jpg

An interesting evening. I'd say that my cold, wet, tired state was not completely (or even mostly) debilitating, but the effects were noticeable for sure. Lance definitely took the lead on finding us a new anchorage and tent spot, and in managing our move. A good lesson that:

1. When you have good foul weather gear, it's pretty stupid not to wear it.
2. Solo trips definitely call for a closer watch on your mental and physical state. I didn't really take care to stay (or get back to) warm and dry. I just kind of relied on Lance. I would have managed something on my own, but still. Worth a reminder.

And that was day 6. We were within 11-12 miles of Killarney and the boat ramp. That might prove difficult if we got stiff westerlies again. But the wind shift to NW would help--with luck, we'd be able to hold our course for Killarney, close-hauled but not tacking dead to windward. Frankly, I was too tired to worry much about it that night.

[nrs5000]

Sounds like you had some symptoms of mild hypothermia. I'm grateful you are sharing the story-- it's good to think over these sorts of experiences afterwards.

[WI-Tom]

Sounds like you had some symptoms of mild hypothermia. I'm grateful you are sharing the story-- it's good to think over these sorts of experiences afterwards.

Yes, some reflection after the fact can be valuable. I think, at most, very mild or early stage hypothermia, maybe. Once out of my wet clothes, I warmed up fine in the sleeping bag/tent without additional heat sources. I think maybe more likely, just cold and tired, and on my way toward hypothermia had I not gotten dry and warm eventually.

But, just dumb not to wear my foul weather gear! Especially since I knew I'd be sailing to windward, and taking some spray aboard at least.

Tom

[WI-Tom]

Day seven. We needed to get back to the car and trailer by the end of the day so we could get on the road to Wisconsin.

We woke up to blustery conditions, with the wind a bit north of west. So, not exactly a beat, but not exactly favorable. We started out as early as we could, maybe not too long after sunrise. It seemed like it might be on the verge of being too windy, but an early start might make up for that if we got moving before things got worse.

You know it's windy when the Phoenix III has to tie a reef in:

7.1.jpg

It was windy enough that I wasn't sure if a single or double reef would be the right choice for FOGG. I think I went with a single reef, which turned out OK.

We tried to stay pretty close together for the most part on this leg; it was still awfully windy, and we were worried that it might end up getting worse.

But a few miles later, were were tacking our way through the Fox Islands, back where we were on day one of the trip a week ago:

7.2.jpg

The wind stayed plenty strong, but didn't seem to get any worse. Steady sailing, nothing stressful. We made good time:

7.3.jpg

(Edit to add: This photo looks like I had a double reef in, not a single. It was plenty windy).

And eventually we sailed into Killarney Channel, where the winds turned all fluky and unpredictable. So, it was a finish under oars (you really need an easterly wind to sail up the Killarney Channel in this direction).

7.4.jpg

And that was the trip.

We had parked in the back lot of the Church of St. Bonaventure (St. Good Luck!) just a few blocks down the road, so we left the boats, got the cars, and loaded up. Then, with the last of my Canadian cash, I got an order of fish and chips from the Herbert Fisheries restaurant at the boat ramp--a tasty lunch before starting the loooong drive back to Wisconsin.

I had managed to run my tank down uncomfortably near E on the drive in. Didn't really manage to relax until we found a petrol station 40+ miles down the road.

A last look at the entire 7-day trip:

Trip Overview.jpg

Here's a link to the Google Maps entry I created for the article in Small Boats in case anyone's interested: Google Maps Georgian Bay 2022

And that was that. A great trip! (If you haven't sailed here yet, and this is your kind of sailing, all I can say is that a long drive is entirely worth it).

Fair winds, everyone.

Tom

[Jack Loudon]

Fantastic story Tom; enjoyed every minute of it.

[Stora Le]

Thank you very much.
It was an entertaining, inspiring and instructive story!
Great pictures as well.

Viktor

[Paul Pless]

well told tom

[WI-Tom]

Thanks for the comments, everyone. Sailing season is, maybe, not all that far away now. Three more days until the equinox. 5:40 a.m. here and the sky is already fairly light.

Tom

[AJBTC]

What a great story, Tom. I enjoyed reading it when published and again here!

What would be the best (easiest) area for small boat sailing for someone new to the north channel? I've also thought about staying on land and trailer-day-sailing to several locations as an introduction to the area.

[stromborg]

That was a pretty epic trip, thank you for sharing.

Are you any closer to finding your way onto the water in your new area?

[WI-Tom]

What a great story, Tom. I enjoyed reading it when published and again here!

What would be the best (easiest) area for small boat sailing for someone new to the north channel? I've also thought about staying on land and trailer-day-sailing to several locations as an introduction to the area.

Thanks for the comment--I like posting here because I can share more photos than the published article, and a little different take on it.

As for the North Channel, I think a perfect intro to the area would be to launch at Blind River and explore the Turnbull Islands:

Turnbull Islands.jpg

The Turnbulls are a nice little island group, 20+ islands all packed together. It's maybe 10 miles from the boat ramp to the heart of the islands. Some decent camping ashore potential. You could get a motel in Blind River but 10 miles out and back is a pretty big daysail--might be better to find a nice island to camp on for a couple of nights.

I posted a thread about a trip here back in 2019. You can CHECK IT OUT HERE if you haven't already.

Bottom line: This is a nice low-commitment trip. Once you make the initial 10-mile hop to the islands, you can move around from island to island in mostly sheltered waters, and we're talking yards per passage, not miles.

[WI-Tom]

But, if you want more options--kind of a "Best of the North Channel"--then you can't do better than launching in the little town of Spanish:

Spanish.jpg

From here, you can head west into the Whalesback Channel (tall rocky islands, really not much for sheltered landings but you can visit ashore when it's calm). 15 miles in that direction is Beardrop Harbour, a neat cliff-ringed anchorage (there's a sand beach at on the north shore just outside the western entrance to the harbor, nice camping there). Or, about the same distance from Spanish but a bit farther south, there's a nice sandy beach at the southern tip of John Island (the yellow circle with no arrow or label on the map). Go another 6 miles west and you're back in the Turnbull Islands.

Or, heading south and east from Spanish, the Benjamin Islands are about 12 miles of sailing. This is the best of the best of the North Channel, and the main anchorages (between North and South Benjamin, and on the western end of Fox Island) get very crowded. But, there are places a little shallow-draft boat can find solitude. Some of my favorite spots are a small lagoon with a VERY shallow entrance on the west side of North Benjamin Island (hard to see the entrance but it's there). And, the entire maze at the southern tip of South Benjamin (this is often VERY crowded but you can find a shallow corner to yourself most times--and there's a spectacular sand beach backed by a granite cliff just outside the main anchorage there.

Here's a closer look at the Benjamins:

Benjamin Islands.jpg

Also lots of small-boat coves on the southern shores of Fox Island (just north and east of the Benjamins), and a sand beach (and pit toilet, I think, but pretty rustic and maybe not maintained) on the west side of Croker Island just east of the Benjamins.

Hope that helps! Once you make the initial 10-15 mile hop, you can get to all kinds of locations where you can camp and daysail for a few days.

Tom

[WI-Tom]

That was a pretty epic trip, thank you for sharing.

Are you any closer to finding your way onto the water in your new area?

I'm in touch with the staff at Row Generation to get information about getting a cruising rowboat (not wooden) delivered to me direct from the factory (the company is Swedish but the boats are built in Poland). They're pricey, though, at $7,000 Euros or so (they seem to think you can sell a used one for half price if I come back to the U.S. in a few years).

I've also gently suggested a skin on frame boat building workshop as an extracurricular activity at the school. Maybe that will happen next year. I could see a fleet of nice Shenandoah Whitehalls on the Oder River.

With no car or trailer, and no plans to change that, a rowboat is probably my best bet at this point. With rentals elsewhere when I want to do some cruising. Seems likely I might rent a camping rowboat on the Thames this summer, or on the canals.

Tom