A moun­tain of unavoid­able boat projects caused a few days’ delay, but I’m now rea­son­ably cer­tain that the good ship Char­i­ty will pull out of Seattle’s Fisherman’s Ter­mi­nal today. As cer­tain as a deck­hand ever can be, that is. If a pro­fes­sion root­ed in tak­ing life can offer Bud­dhist teach­ings, it’s this: Let go of expec­ta­tions and attach­ment, as cap­tains reserve – and con­tin­u­al­ly exer­cise – the right to change plans.

(I have a ways to go yet on real­iz­ing this lesson.)

The Char­i­ty’s last night in Seat­tle, until fall 2011.

Had some excite­ment this week. If you read Hooked’s last post, you know I was pret­ty casu­al about pack­ing for this trip. Saved it for my last night at home, tossed every­thing into a cou­ple bags. I don’t expect to be on the Char­i­ty for more than a month, and the process is pret­ty for­mu­la­ic. Boots, raingear, toi­letries, a lot of fish clothes, a lit­tle of town clothes. (“Town clothes”: A T‑shirt and Carhartts that haven’t been worn while fish­ing. That’s pret­ty classy for our crowd.)

While Mar­tin did the Cost­co run, I pre­pared to gel-coat the head floor. At lunch, he’d said we’d like­ly stop in Bute Dale, a mys­ti­cal ghost town sev­er­al days into Cana­da. Cen­tu­ry-old skele­tons of hous­es and a long-aban­doned can­nery slide into the bay under the super­vi­sion of a mas­sive water­fall and one lone care­tak­er, Lou.

My thoughts wan­dered as I wiped the floor down with ace­tone. Haven’t stopped in Bute Dale since the last time I fished with Martin…what, 6 years ago? Won­der what’s left of it. Bute Dale… Canada…Customs…Passport – NO PASSPORT!

I called Joel in pan­ic-strick­en dis­be­lief. We were plan­ning to leave in the next day, and not only had I for­got­ten to pack my required doc­u­men­ta­tion for tran­sit­ing through Cana­da, I didn’t have a clue where I’d put it. A bad sur­prise for any­one; extra mor­ti­fy­ing for the fam­i­ly mem­ber known as the respon­si­ble, orga­nized one.

Cap’n J saved the day. He calmed me down, refus­ing to play my “What if you can’t find it!” game. When he didn’t find it in any of my usu­al safe-keep­ing spots, he drove down to the Ner­ka, checked the binder of required doc­u­ments on our boat. No dice. I jumped when the phone buzzed sev­er­al hours lat­er, and felt my shoul­ders sag when he said, “Found it.”

With that, things took a turn for the bet­ter. Joel had already planned a trip through Seat­tle for the next day, so he made a spe­cial deliv­ery detour through Fisherman’s Ter­mi­nal. We had a bonus last lunch togeth­er, a few more hugs and kiss­es good­bye, and I’m now legal to trav­el through Cana­da. Whew.

We got fuel yes­ter­day. Over $3500 of diesel. That’ll get us to Alas­ka; we’ll have to fuel up again in Sit­ka before we can go fish­ing. We’ve still got a few tasks today – gro­ceries, run­ning new anchor line on the winch, check­ing the sur­vival suits. If you’d like to keep an eye on our trip, vis­it here and here for marine weath­er updates.  We’ll be head­ing up the Inside Pas­sage, Seat­tle to Sit­ka, and expect a 5 to 6 day trip, bar­ring any weath­er-relat­ed delays.

June 2010: Look­ing back on Wash­ing­ton water, head­ing into a great forecast.

When you next hear from the F/V Char­i­ty, we should be safe­ly teth­ered to Sitka’s Elia­son Har­bor. If we pass on the dock, you’ll know me by the hal­ibut-sized grin on my face. I’ll have made the first walk up to the Back­door, Romeos fair­ly skip­ping over the side­walk to get to that home­com­ing slice of Bernadette’s close-your-eyes-and-whimper-it’s‑so-good pie. (See? So much for let­ting go of expectations.)

Until then, sweet read­er, may you enjoy clear skies and safe seas in your life, as you embrace your own sea­son­al transitions.