Crossing the Finish Line in Seward

Fourpeaked Mountain to Seward, two nights

I leave the anchorage an hour before sunrise and motor out into the Shelikof Strait in the dark. At first light I find a halibut lying on my deck, missing a few bites at the fin and head. It certainly didn't jump aboard, and I didn't catch it. The best theory I can come up with, even after applying Occam's razor, is this: a seal came aboard over the transom stairs in the night with its catch and left in a hurry. Maybe because I was getting up? Later, when the sea has calmed, I take the halibut in, look up on YouTube how to fillet it, and make an outstanding lunch.

The sailing is more challenging than anticipated. It is all upwind, but with the bit of angle I have I thought I should be doing fine. Instead there is a non-tidal current that keeps pushing me back, and my tacking angles are horrific. I decide to cross to the north shore, where I suspect less current. Less current, yes — but also no wind. So I go back on the engine and motor to an anchorage for some sleep. I find a good one just off a glacier, with nice holding in silt.

Next comes the crossing to Seward, through Kennedy Entrance. It has a bad reputation: the wind funnels and kicks up a dangerous swell. This time it behaves, and I fly through at eight to ten knots.

The whole way, I am trying to settle the winter harbor. Homer is my first choice, but Homer doesn't perform: responses are slow, the phone goes unanswered, and I get weak negative signals the whole time. Now I hear they are not certain that the big lift my beam requires can even make it to my "parking" spot. Enough. I put a first ten degrees on toward Seward and call them instead. Professional, fast, clear. After about two hours I decide: Hafiz will winter in Seward. I set course for Seward.

Seward is 100 miles extra, and there is no elegant way of getting there. If I anchor, I run into head winds and the remains of a Pacific typhoon the next day. If I continue, I have to motor against light winds close to shore, and the proximity of the coast demands a more stringent night watch. Well then — one last time, sacrifice sleep and motor through the night.

When I reach the peninsula, the scenery changes: spruce trees all over the mountainsides. Still rugged, still steep, but with trees it suddenly looks like country I could imagine living in. Closer to what I am used to.

A two-knot counter-current all night makes it slow going. The shoreline is rugged with many small islands and the strong current is funneling between them. In the early morning I can’t resist and go in between them. Once more: like sailing in the Alps filled with water to 1,000 meter altitude.

I moor in Seward at 1pm, in a deep, calm, beautiful bay. The engine is still warm, so I do the oil and filter change straight away, then drop the genoa and stow it while it is still dry. The weather will turn soon.

I don't leave the dock that day. When the work is done I have dinner and go to sleep. By the time I get up, the weather is properly nasty: the typhoon remains are emptying themselves over Seward.

So I have arrived. Boat safe, winter berth almost settled. The only thing left between Hafiz and the hard is a waiver of subrogation — a very American insurance thing that I need to persuade my Swiss insurer to issue. Until then I stay in the harbor, work on the boat, and wait out next week's weather. I also want to start a rehabilitation program: the past months have taken a toll on my cardio fitness.Read more