Islands in the Strait: Sailing Canada’s Gulf Isles

I called my brother Dan, who is my go-to guy for half-baked, far-flung sailing ideas. “The time is now,” I said, using an ominous voice. “Time for us to head north for some serious sailing adventure.”

No, I was not talking about the San Juan Islands, that delightful archipelago in the far northwest corner of the contiguous United States. I wanted to cross the border, where the magic continues with Canada’s Gulf Islands.

Like a baby whale tucked safely up against its mother’s belly, the 200 or so Gulf Islands are clustered around the southeast corner of Vancouver Island at the western terminus of the world’s longest international border. They benefit from the rain-shadow effect of the mountains there, with a mild, sunny climate and limited rain and snow. It’s a perfect place for two guys who spend their ­summers wilting in the heat of Florida and California.

I reminded myself, as I searched for a charter company, to ask questions and do actual research about boat maintenance and more before sending the check. This credo led me to the good people at NW Explorations, who had excellent customer reviews and a gently used Bavaria 35 available for our preferred dates in September. The ­company also scores big on ­convenience: It’s all of 10 minutes from Victoria International Airport.

One thing I kept reading on ­social media is that recreational boats need to be wary of the many ferries and floatplanes that use these ­waters. With shock, I watched a 2023 ­video of a floatplane colliding with a ­powerboat in Vancouver Harbour. And ferries are always going faster than they look. So I paid close attention on arrival day at Port Sidney Marina as I learned all about the Bavaria Immaterial Girl. 

A company rep helped us review safety gear, electronics and engine operation. She produced maintenance checklists. This was comforting compared with previous charters I’ve been on, where the company neglected to empty the holding tank or make sure all the battery cables were tight. 

Another rep then demonstrated the finer points of operation, navigating and anchoring. “The few problems we’ve had,” he said, “were customers who hit a rock and said it was unmarked. There are no unmarked rocks in this area. They’re all on the chart.”

Dan arrived from the airport a little before dusk. After loading up on food and drinks, we reviewed tides and weather, and we set the alarm for dawn. We would try to catch a break with the wind early in the week, get as far north as possible, and then pick our way south through the islands. For wind and weather forecasts, we had the internet and real-time updates. 

We motored out of the marina the next morning and were ­treated to a sublime display of rocky islands and mountains backlit by a golden sky. The florid writing of Muriel “Capi” Blanchet came to mind. She sailed these waters on a small motor launch with her five children almost 100 years ago, using the experience as ­inspiration for her Canadian classic, The Curve of Time.

I’ve spent a lot of time on boats, mostly on the US East Coast and in the Bahamas. I can tell you now that the only thing that those locations have in common with these waters is salt, storms and tides. In our warm waters, you’ll see birds and the occasional ­manatee, but up here, you’re constantly goose-necking to see pelagic life, to take it all in. I’m embarrassed to say that in all my sailing, I’d never seen a whale and was quietly hoping that a pod would make an appearance. And the soundings can go from 300 feet to less than 10 in a New York minute. 

The wind was foul but the mood was fine as we picked our way through the many isles and tidal streams. For navigation, we had paper charts and a chart plotter. The Navionics app on my phone proved the most useful; it instantly plotted our way through minefields of rocks and narrow passes. Still, I frequently cross-checked our position on all three redundant systems.

Archipelago sailing is great. You sail as long as you like and then pull over wherever you are for the night. Weary of the strong northwesterlies, we gingerly entered Princess Cove on Wallace Island, dropped a single anchor, and called it a day. At sunset, we were treated to a full harvest moon rising above the pines with a million stars above. 

The next morning, we listened to Environment Canada’s marine forecast on VHF radio Channel 21 and got underway beneath a beautiful sky on a falling tide, backtracking oh-so-slowly, with a sharp eye on the depth sounder as we reentered Trincomali Channel, bound for Gabriola Island. We raised the mainsail with the wind still forward of the beam.

Seas were smooth, and we maintained 5 knots with motor assist. Later, we passed a tug with a log boom—a reminder that we shared these waters with slow-moving working vessels. John Muir passed near here in 1879 on his way to Alaska and was astonished by what he saw. “Never before this had I been ­embosomed in scenery so hopelessly ­beyond ­description,” he wrote.

Good time is made catching the rising tide, and by afternoon, we had pulled into Degnen Bay on Gabriola, where we were disheartened to see boats chockablock on moorings. Dan took the helm while I scanned around. Canadian kindness is real: With a big smile and without being asked, a man offered his mooring to us for the night, then ran his dinghy out to show us where and took our bow line through the swivel eye. He refused to take any money. Then he got his car and offered us a ride to town. Wow, what a great place.

In Folklife Village, we picked up a few items for the larder and then caught “Gertie,” the public bus service. It makes continuous loops around the island and requires only a wave to the driver for a ride. And on this island, like all the others we visited, there were constant reminders that First Nations people had been there long before the Europeans arrived.

On day three, we threaded our way into Telegraph Harbour on Thetis Island, where two double-ended ferries regularly visit. They’re designed to get in and out of a terminal quickly; when they back out, they spin around, and it’s difficult to tell where they’re bound. I can only compare watching this to how a matador must feel when a bull stares him down. Olé and get out of the way.

The spring ebb compelled us to run at idle speed into Telegraph Harbour, then to Thetis Island Marina, where we took a just-deep-enough slip. Off we went to stretch our legs, and we came to one of the many “drying passes” in these islands. Known as “The Cut,” it serves as a risky shortcut between Thetis and Penelakut islands. We watched a small sailboat run aground trying to get through, and decided to cruise the long way when it was time for us to leave. Back at the marina’s pub, we scarfed down big bowls of clam chowder and enjoyed the warmth of a wood-burning stove, all with a great view of the boat traffic.

An incendiary sunset lit up the sky and harbor that night with radiant bands of yellow, orange and red, all burning away at the stratified clouds like a prairie wildfire. A wedge of frantic geese flew over the docks, and an owl awakened nearby, hooting its warning. It was one of those forever moments that’s all too short; within a minute, a long gray line advanced downward, pushing the colors beneath the horizon until nothing remained but a bloody glow between distant mountains. This is why I sail: It puts ordinary people like me in a position to witness the extraordinary.

Underway the next morning, we turned southeast and realized that the wind had swung to the south. Oh well, at least the skies were blue and the tide was going our way. The green mountains rose sharply, soon to be covered with snow. 

The Bavaria’s Volvo hummed contentedly. We found it to be a solid cruising yacht, albeit plastered everywhere with German imperatives such as: abwindstarke 6 sind alle kabinen-fenster zu schlieBen. That is:“In wind force 6, all cabin windows are to be closed.” Who says high school language classes don’t come in handy later in life? 

We took a sharp right at Southey Point and crossed tracks with a bulk carrier. Quickly, we steered to the side to let it pass, but a distant sailboat remained in its path. The five stentorian blasts of the ship had its crew scurrying aside. 

The small anchorage at Retreat Cove was nearby, but we carried on for the long western approach to Montague Harbour and the dock at Marine Provincial Park. From there, it was off to town to catch the bus to the famous Hummingbird Pub. Sadly, it had just closed for the season. In fact, most of the village had called it quits for the year. Back in the boat’s cockpit, as the harvest moon rose over the many anchor lights, Dan and I reminisced of days gone by in Ohio. We heard the plaintive cry of a loon. Could there be a better end to any day?

The sun rose and, despite the 44-degree temperature, it was another winner of a day with nary a cloud in the sky nor a soul moving in the anchorage. After dancing with several leviathan ferries and making the pass west of Prevost Island, we entered a massive fog bank. Dan was at the helm and I was at the bow, bleating the foghorn. Of the frequent fogs here, Blanchett wrote: “It would roll down the open channels in great round masses—­hesitate for an island, and then roll over it and on. It would fill up all the bays—searching and exploring.”

We made the turn into Bedwell Harbour and grabbed one of the many moorings at Beaumont Marine Park as the fog receded just above the tip of our mast. A hike up Mount Norman proved a lot more exercise than we’d anticipated; it was surprising that after two hours in the woods, we saw not a single critter. 

With the sun well across the yardarm, it was time for sundowners and a good meal. We zipped across the harbor to Poets Cove Resort & Spa, which was named, we were told, for the many marriage proposals that happened there. Dinner at the bar was awesome, enhanced by a spirited conversation with some patrons and the barkeeper about what makes Canadian football better than American. (Three downs instead of four? Are they kidding?)

Really, I’m not making this up: The sun rose again to a cool, clear morning without a breath of wind. Boats around us were frozen in place, clearly reflected in the water.

A seal snorted nearby, no doubt looking for a fish breakfast. Ours would be avocado toast with eggs and java. We let loose the mooring and were bound for Lyall Harbour on Saturna Island. We crept through the pass between Pender Island and Blunden Islet: very narrow, very nerve-wracking. Our Lady of Blessed Navionics got us through, with 20 feet to spare.

Later, Dan called down from the wheel: “Hey, bro, this ­powerboat is gonna hit us. What should I do?” 

I quickly explained the basic rules of the road, which in a crossing situation can be summed up as: When he’s right, you’re wrong. The fishing boat was crossing our path from the left side. “So we’re the stand-on ­vessel?” Dan asked. “Precisely,” I ­answered. “But let’s be ready to circle around his stern if he doesn’t know this too.”

We rounded the tip of Saturna and squeezed ­into the public wharf at Lyall Harbour. The cruising guide talked of a bike-rental shop nearby, but it had recently gone out of business. No car rentals either. We had our feet, but these islands are big; next time, we’ll bring bikes.

A hike eastward for a few clicks brought us to Saturna General Store & Freight, where we made our last grocery purchases of the cruise. My cash was getting low. Banks that provide foreign exchange are few and far between in the Gulf Islands, but major credit cards are accepted everywhere. And most places accepted our US cash.

Back at the wharf, we bought tasty bread from Vibrational Café and learned that it was closing for the season in a few days. As the moon peeked out from the distant trees, we enjoyed dinner from the deck of Saturna Lighthouse Pub and watched the last floatplane and ferry head off into the gloaming.

We were underway again on another no-wind morning and spotted basking seals on Saturna Beach, then motored past the dreadfully named Murder Point and wiggled through the many tidal rips along the international border south of Moresby Island. At Portland Island, we made a final ride to the beach for a hike, then called it a week.

It was time to refuel and then deposit Immaterial Girl back in its slip, where it would be cleaned and turned over to another party. Dan and I tied up and fist-bumped, happy for the great week together and all the special places we had visited. 

And then we walked away from one of the best sailing grounds on the continent.

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