Strong currents propelled Ariose out past Tadoussac’s lighthouse tower into the St.Lawrence, and we were off on the next leg of our voyage.

There’s a story behind this lighthouse, affectionatley known as “la toupie”. I’m sure there’s many stories behind every lighthouse , but this one seems to fit well with this week’s Royal news. In 1860, the first bridge to span the St. Lawrence opened (still in use, by the way), connecting Montreal to St. Lambert. It was named in honour of Queen Victoria, but perhaps with better things to do than cross an ocean, she sent her son, Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales, to the inauguration in her stead.  The official maps of the day, however, were less than reliable. The ship he travelled on ran aground on previously uncharted shallows at Tadoussac, and I assume, made him a little late for the ceremony. Her Majesty’s cartographers subsequently corrected the maps and named this area, fittingly, Prince Shoal, in Albert’s honour. Since then, the prominent lighthouse – at over 80’ high, can’t be missed –  safely guides mariners. Wonder if there’s a cautionary message here for the most recent Prince of Wales who has now ascended to the throne?

When anticipating this next section that would take us around the immense Gaspé Penninsula, Tim and I  felt a bit of trepidation. We would be in unfamiliar-to-us waters – and they are big waters! – with little in the way of protected anchorages. For our first night, though, we planned to cross to the south shore of the St. Lawrence and drop hook in L’Anse Original, a sheltered cove framed by the rocky hills of Parc National du Bic. It promised a good start.  It looked to be the kind of anchorage that allows a peaceful night, and that it was. Our arrival coincided with a heavy downpour, but other than one of us getting a soaking while we anchored, we were comfortable and secure.  We slept soundly, blissfully ignorant to a “little” issue Ariose was harbouring deep within.

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The next morning, we weighed anchor with some regret that we would not be staying longer to further explore the lovely surroundings in the Parcl. Little did we know our visit was about to be prolonged.

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Winds were brisk, but the next few days were forecast to be mild, and we didn’t want to linger and miss the favourable conditions for getting around that intimidating peninsula. We were surrounded on 3 sides with land and rocky shoals, so we made sure we were sharp and ready to sail out with precision. Everything checked – well almost everything – and we were ready. I was at the helm and Tim was hauling chain. The moment he had the anchor off the bottom, the sails filled and we were on our way, as expected, toward the shoals. I was prepared to tack immediately to bring us in line with a clear exit. “Coming about!” I warned Tim who was still pulling up the anchor and positioned a little vulnerably at the bow. I cranked the wheel to execute the turn, and it wouldn’t move. What? Turn toward starboard (and the shoals) was fine, but a hard stop to port. Not good. Nothing like an instant surge of adrenaline to push problem-solving into high gear.

We had been experimenting with our self-steering wind vane the previous day, and it, with its connection to the steering quadrant, was the likely culprit. I flung open the lazarette, expecting to find those lines tangled, but all looked well. I looked up. Our margin of safety was narrowing quickly.

I shouted to Tim to drop anchor. He was wondering about my sloppy manoeuvre, but had no idea of my panic, so understandably, paused for a moment to question me. “Drop it now!!” I shouted, perhaps with a little more force than necessary… and he did. We stopped, safely. Breathe.

Time to figure out what was going on. The wheel continued to turn freely in one direction and the other way, stopped with a palpable clunk.  We unloaded then crawled into the icy confines of a cockpit locker to eyeball the steering mechanism. Tim looked. I looked. Neither of us could see anything impeding it.  Nothing. What about the view from the other locker? Still nothing.  Would we have to get into those frigid waters to visibly inspect the rudder? Tim and I looked at each other, assessing who carried the most insulation. We have no wetsuits on board, but have something even better. Time to get out the GoPro camera and attach it securely to the telescoping boat hook! (So, did you really think either of us is hard core enough, or wrapped in enough blubber to go for a swim in these waters?)

When viewing the footage, the first thing we noticed was seaweed trailing from the rudder joint. That was a relief – the fix would be easy. But it didn’t really make sense that vegetation would jamb the steering so distinctly. Maybe some hard debris was hidden within? We reviewed the video clip again, and although the angle made it difficult to be certain, we noticed that the propeller shaft looked a little too long. Back to the water for our GoPro, and this time, we managed a better angle. The propeller shaft had definitely slipped, causing the rudder (which steers the boat) to jam against the propeller. Shining a flashlight into the bilge confirmed the bad news. We could see the shaft sat a couple inches aft of where it should be.

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The good news?  The damage to the rudder looked superficial. With our dubious history of destroying one rudder per voyage, that was definitely good. We were also just 10 miles from Rimouski, a well serviced town for marine repairs, if we needed help.  Most importantly, though, the Alberg 30’s design meant that we were not at risk of anything catastrophic. With some other vessel, if the prop shaft decides to take a hike, it can easily completely evacuate, leaving a hole that will sink the boat. Once again, thank you designer Carl Alberg.

We considered our options. We were in a safe spot, not in any imminent danger, and happened to have a ship’s mechanic on board with a track record of ingenuity and super-human perseverance. We decided to tackle the repair ourselves. Well, I should say that Tim tackled it. I just stayed out of his way, wrapped in a down sleeping bag to keep warm, valiantly hopping out from time-to-time, on request, to hand him a tool.

The short version is that Tim successfully re-secured the shaft. The longer version is that it took, well, long. (Disclaimer: What you are about to read is the Shirley version of marine engine workings and likely contains some significant inaccuracies!)

 The propeller shaft is held fast to the transmission flange by the coupler.  See that small dimple ( circled in yellow).There’s 2 like that on the shaft.

Grub bolts (you can see one’s hex head) go through the coupler and grip these indents. It seems awfully rinky-dink, if you ask me, as a way of keeping such a vitally important part secure. There’s also a small metal key that fits into a keyway in the coupler to ensure stuff works together. The coupler then bolts to the transmission. Anyways, all this to say that multiple alignments were necessary. Accomplishing this seemed to me difficult in any situation, and impossible in this one. Tim had to contort himself sometimes over the engine, sometime under, squeezing his left arm through a small space (his view was blocked when he used his right) to work one-handed. And that was one non-dominant hand! He did what he does best: Just stuck to it.

Meanwhile, my morale plummeted.  When I’m completely out of my element and have to rely on others, I’m definitely not in my comfort zone.  I’m better at “doing” vulnerable than I used to be, but it’s still rather agonizing.  I ran through all sorts of plan Bs from getting towed to Rimouski and hauled out for repair (and blowing our budget), to possibly having to call it quits again on this voyage. I got so far as to even begin to convince myself that I would welcome returning to a stable land-based dwelling with comfortable temperatures. Getting going on building that straw-bale home we dreamed of, well anchored to the earth, no prop shafts necessary, sounded pretty appealing.

I kept my thoughts to myself and Tim proceeded, unfazed. He unbolted the coupler, installed a temporary clamp on the shaft to be sure it didn’t slip further and to give a point from which to pry, aligned everything, and secured shaft to coupler. From that point, Tim says, it was easy. He just needed to pull the coupler with shaft attached forward and rebolt to the transmission. Easy!?  As easy as anything that takes 9 determined hours that day and a few more the next morning to accomplish can be. Tim shines when faced with a mechanical challenge, able to stay focused in the moment, solving one step at a time. He came through again. Time for lunch.

With each incident we successfully overcome, our confidence grows, but the lingering undercurrent of anticipatory “what’s next?” dread deepens its hold too.

So starting that afternoon with what’s now a routine check that we do, indeed, have full steering range, it was onward for Ariose.  The next few days brought with them varied conditions from moderate winds offering full-day sails to absolute calms and a lot of motoring (and stops to check the prop shaft), and even when desperate to get to anchor without starting the motor, some old-fashioned paddling!

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The water and air temps warmed – thank goodness! – and even the seals floating comfortably around us seemed less buoyed by the pfd-like insulating blubber that was around the necks of their Saguenay cousins. It was a delightful stretch. We were able to hug the shoreline, sailing mainly on a broad reach when there were winds, and motoring when they disappeared. We witnessed rural villages of the western part of Gaspésie transition to smaller hamlets nestled in the valleys of forested hills rising into mountains. We motored past brigades of wind generators standing guard on the high points of land. They were also longing for a breeze.

We anchored in Ste-Louice, Tartigou, then the ominously named Les Mechins as we travelled eastward. Some nights were calm, and some tortured us as we unsuccessfully attempted to adjust Ariose so we were not hapless victims of the current vs wind battles. We were grateful, though, to be spared any northerly winds. They would have made anchoring on this exposed coast impossible.

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One day, owing to an exceptionally poor sleep the night before, we decided that if we can’t get a good sleep, we might as well make distance. We prepared to sail through the night. Hot soup made and into a thermos, settee transformed into a cozy mid-ship bed, jacklines tightened and tethers out, and we were ready. This would be our first overnight passage of this voyage. As the sunset broadcast serene pastels across the horizon, we passed one of the few anchoring options we would have between then and morning. Mont-St-Pierre’s cove looked so calm and inviting. Tim and I bounced a few “what do you want to do’s?” back and forth, neither of us wanting to be the one to renege on our commitment. Lights in the village houses came on reflecting on the black waters, the moon rose over the ChicChoc mountains, and we were seduced. In we turned, anchor dropped, and we were graced with a display of the northern lights. We slept well. Our first over-nighter will have to wait.

As an aside, in this cove, we encountered a significant error in our electronic charts. We planned to anchor in 20 feet of water, but at that point on the chart, our depth sounder showed nearly 100 feet. We did putter around until we found the depths we needed, so all was fine, but it was unnerving to discover that that the data that we rely on for our safety are not infallible. A good reminder to never blindly trust a single source when making our navigating decisions, unless, of course, we aspire to have newly discovered shoals named in our honour. We’ve also passed fishing vessels (illegally) not transponding on AIS. Again, unnerving. It doesn’t matter how much technology on board, our eyes and common sense are still needed.

A little further east, near the village of Cloridorme, we began to be entertained by gannets.  Lots of them. What gorgeous sea birds. Their wings span 2 metres, with black tips standing out as their squadrons skim the wave-tops. They are masterful with their make-uo, with soft yellow powdered caps and Egyptian-style mascara, clearly a good quality waterproof brand as they dive and surface looking as glamorous as ever.

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They are more than just another pretty face. We are endlessly amused watching them break away to soar high, then suddenly plunge at shocking speeds (up to 100 km/hr!), making a torpedo-like sound as they puncture the surface, hunting for their next meal. Curious about how they could withstand the impact, we turned to our 3^rd crew on board, Google. Apparently, their nostrils are inside their mouths so they don’t subject themselves to a high pressure salt-water sinus rinse when diving. They also have air sacs under skin of their face and chest that cushions the impact. That also explains how they pop back up, balloon-like. Adaptation is amazing, isn’t it?

I wasn’t able to capture a good photo, but we’ll soon be sailing by Bonaventure Island, an important breeding site, so hopefully, some will cooperate for the camera there.

For a couple of cruisers who are aiming south for the Caribbean, our course has been anything but. The St.Lawrence, flowing north east, provides a rather paradoxical route. It was around Saint-Maxime-du-Mont-Louis (pop’n 1,000, or 200 residents per word in the town’s protracted name) that this began to change. The compass, previously residing in the 0 to 90 degree range, was now tipping toward 180! We had rounded the most northerly curve of the Gaspé penninsula, and it would be southward from here. Sweet!

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Parc Forillon occupies the easterly end of the peninsula, and it’s a stunning piece of land.   Seven days after departing from Tadoussac, we crossed into the park’s waters. It felt like a milestone. There was an offshore wind forecast for the next 24-36 hours, so we rather cheekily dropped hook in an unlikely spot, just north of the narrow finger of majestic ragged cliffs, off a pebble beach. We were expecting officials to ask us to move on. It turns out they didn’t need to.

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The next morning, with plans to work out our sealegs with a hike in the park, we rowed Poco, our dinghy, to shore. By the time we completed a bit of reconnaissance, and oh yes, helped ourselves to a hot shower in the campground, the winds were picking up. They had shifted early to onshore, and the surf was building. Ariose was violently bucking at anchor, and we wondered if we’d be able to get back to her. There would be no hike, and instead, Tim would get a vigorous workout rowing us ‘home’. It took a bit of timing. Tim was at the ready in the dinghy, oars in hand, while I stood thigh deep (thank goodness for warmer waters!), holding Poco into the waves. As soon as there was a slight gap in their breaking, I shoved off, climbed in, and Tim gave it his all. The few other beach-goers seemed to be keeping an eye on us. I suspect we were an entertaining sight. We made it, dried off, weighed anchor, and had a lively sail as we escaped that lee shore and headed around to the south side of Forillon’s rocky finger.  

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Check out our track … looks like we turned Forillon’s peninsula into a dragon’s tail, with hours of tacking into the wind, and 90 minutes running with it to our planned anchorage.

The evening winds, shifted to northerly as forecast, and we were happy with our chosen spot, hills blocking the wind. By bedtime the sea state had calmed, but gentle rolling swells seemed to appear out of nowhere. A light current held Ariose parallel to shoreline, a perfect position for these swells to hit us broadside. Gentle they looked; brutally they behaved. Rock ‘n roll time. No sleeping on our sides, it was a full-sprawl position, arms and legs wide to brace against being thrown from side-to-side. Actually, there was no sleeping period. By 2am, we admitted defeat. We hadn’t planned to travel to town of Gaspé, a further 10 miles “inland” up the bay. When checking the chart, though, we had noticed that a natural spit almost closes off the tip of bay, and we looked longingly at what we imagined to be calm waters. Anchor up, motor on, and we were off, the moon playing peak-a-boo with us, the sole vessel out there. Shortly after 4am, we tucked into yes! – flat waters – dropped anchor, and then Tim and I were the ones to drop … off to sleep.

And so, our unintended visit to the town of Gaspé, out of desperation for sleep, has turned into a week-long stay. For two days after our arrival, we had a perfect weather window to make the crossing to Iles-de-la-Madeleine, out in the middle of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. We felt like it was more important, though, that we take a bit of time to replenish our energy, and our provisions, but in doing so, we missed that window. We’ve been held hostage here – gratefully so – for a week now, riding out fierce winds.

With hurricane Earl recently flirting offshore of Nova Scotia, we’ve had friends and family sending messages of concern. We are keeping a close eye on Atlantic storms. Earl had no impact on us, but we’ve had unrelated gusts hitting 90 km/hour, and that’s pretty wild. We usually aren’t fond of marina stays, but sure do appreciate being nestled into well protected Club Nautique de Jacques Cartier while those winds howl.

Later today, when the winds settle a little, we plan to move on. Next Ariose Note, we’ll share highlights of this stay we’ve had in Gaspé and of our hopefully smooth 36 hour passage to the Iles-de-la-Madeleine. When we commit to this overnight, there won’t be any backing out. Wish us and our 8-legged stowaway, fair winds and starry skies.

Last Ariose Note wrapped up with a photo of Québec City’s Pierre Laporte bridge. You may have been able to spot the distinctive blue hull of Ariose, our Alberg 30, among the boats there.

We’ve started this one with a dazzling night-time panorama of the same scene. What could possibly be more special than being moored with this spectacular view? I’ll tell you what. Spending that same evening on the patio of Marina de la Chaudière, one of the most charming low-key marinas we’ve had the pleasure to be at, swapping stories with the proud owners of 3 other Alberg 30s!  A30 love-in time!

Lisa and Guy, who we became friends with last year buddy-boating on these same waters, were there, and this would be our only opportunity to cross paths this season. They passed on their recommendations from having spent the summer sailing Inti, their A30, around Gaspe – PEI – Cape Breton – les Îles-de-la-Madeleines. We took notes. Lots! Being fed these tidbits stokes eager anticipation for what’s ahead but I also feel a rising regret that we didn’t allow time to do more than skim the surface of these cruising grounds as we pass through en route to warmer destinations. Fear of missing out of a different sort.  

By “last call” (nothing, to do with alcohol – just the final chance for us to be taxied back to our boats by the Marina’s dinghy) we were still discussing cruising pragmatics and had hardly even touched on the really important conversations, those that inhabit the intersection of the philosophy of sailing & of life. Next morning we rushed to take advantage of the marina services before moving on, then once bodies were showered and clothes laundered, we decided to adjust our plan. We paid for a 2^nd night, and enjoyed continuing the camaraderie for another day.  With access to a large communal kitchen (countertops! cookware! running water!), we shared a potluck feast and dissected everything from the faulty engineering of below-the-waterline through-hulls, to natural home construction and making earthen floors,  to the pernicious harms of consumerism. At the end of the evening, we scored a trade with another patron:  Salmon fillets for our surplus chick pea cauliflower curry. Long live the barter system! 

When travelling by water, there’s few opportunities to chat with local folks. With those Quebecois we have interacted with, I’m pleased to find my very rusty French improving a little. Tim’s even resurrecting some long lost high school vocabulary. Unfortunately, porte/fenetre, chien/chat don’t take him too far in conversations. All have very kindly thrown in their reservoir of English words, we all throw aside our self-consciousness, and somehow manage with no more than minor misunderstandings.  One Chaudière marina member helpfully directed me and my pillowcase full of laundry to the closet housing the washer/dryer. Later that evening, I nodded to the same guy sitting on the patio with several cans of beer in front of him. As he opened one, he asked me “Blah blah blah seché?”  I’ve managed so far by honing in on the words understood and filling in the gaps, so noticing what seemed to be his surplus of alcohol, and putting that together with “seché”, which I know means “dry”, I assumed this was his way of asking if I was thirsty. He was offering me  a beer. “No, merci” I responded with a smile, but wasn’t sure what to make of his quizzical look. Had he been hitting on me, seeing himself as irresistible, and was puzzled by my decline? Later, in replayed the interaction, I had an aha translation realization. He had asked if my laundry was dry, not me! Imagine how it would have gone down had I instead responded with a “Oui, merci” and helped myself to one of his brew.

The following day, after phone t’ai chi with my Mom, we said our farewells. Some Albergs remaining here at their home marina, Inti continuing westward as they wrap up their season, and Ariose taking a short hop to the opposite shore, to sample Vieux-Québec before we carry on eastward

Québec City was hot. In fact, as I write this a little over a week later, I realize it was our last taste of summer heat. Ariose is currently absorbing frigid temperatures from the cold outer St. Lawrence waters and it feels like we’re living in a walk-in fridge. Multiple layers, wool toques and warm jackets are haute couture aboard. Anyways, as I get back to writing about Québec City I’ll try to channel that warmth.

We spent a day – a sweaty day – hiking from our anchorage, 5km up the escarpment path, in the 250 year old footsteps of Wolfe’s British troops, and along the Plains of Abraham to the walled part of the old city. It’s easy to understand Montcalme’s confidence, between the steep climb and loose shale, that this French stronghold was invincible. It wasn’t.

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With Tim and I having been to Québec City a couple times recently [last year’s stop], combined with the energy-depleting heat, we had no appetite for touristy activities. We spent the day ambling along from one shaded bench to another, soaking up the peculiar ambience of sightseers of every shape and size and tongue, desperately creative buskers, and souvenir shops and restaurants luring in passersby among the historical streets. Quite the melange.

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Next day, it was onward. Au revoir. The Chateau Frontenac dwarfed by the massive cruise ship along its harbourfront, receded in our wake.

We attempted to sail by Îles d’Orléans, but after hours of minimal progress against a headwind and unfavourable current, we gave up, dropped anchor, and hung out for hours until the tide turned. Feeling refreshed, we could once again make our way. That’s since been a strategy we’ve employed a few times.

I used to think that I’d love sailing because of the freedom. Constraints would be left ashore. Hah! Naïve. When we’re cruising we don’t have the 9-to-5 type limitations, but have discovered we actually have very little agency in how we spend our day. Winds, currents, boat issues, and even our psychological state all dictate our progress or lack thereof. I’ve since come to the realization that part of the gift of what we’re doing is that it helps me accept what is within my control and what isn’t, and to be ok with that. When I say “ok”, I don’t mean I’ve attained any zen-like state. Definitely not. I still feel frustrated, but less so. Through my upbringing and my career, I’ve been rewarded for being a strong organizer, and now I’ve come to see the other side of that coin. I recognized myself so clearly in my father, spending his final days planning every last detail from his obituary to instructing us on how to remove the stains from the laundry tub. I, too, suffer the curse of being a planner, with delusions that I am in control. Tim’s so much better at going with the flow.  We balance each other. You likely know the saying, you can’t control the wind, but you can adjust the sails. Îles d’Orléans was a reminder of this wisdom’s less eloquent version:  You can’t fight the current, but you can drop the anchor, eat, putter at projects, nap, and wait for conditions to change.

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Over the next few days, we really enjoyed the familiarity earned through last year’s sailing.  There’s reassurance knowing that we have safe anchorages ahead, and knowing where the wonky currents are that we’d be good to avoid (note – we stayed far from Iles Aux Coudres this year ).

On one particular day sailing eastward, it was not only recognizable territory, but lacked interest.  We commented a few times during the day on the monotony. The word “boring” may have even been uttered. Perhaps Mother Nature heard, and thought we were asking for some excitement, or perhaps, judged us ripe for a lesson.  We had heard the Coast Guard issue gale warnings on the VHF early in the day for the Trois-Rivières area. Our weather app didn’t show anything concerning, so we didn’t pay much attention. Besides, it was about a week’s sailing from Trois-Rivières to our current location, and it felt too distant to be relevant. But at less than 200 km away – for winds that could be travelling up to 90 km/hour – it was not so far.

At day’s end, we had few options for anchoring but were fine with an unprotected spot. It was such a mild day, after all. I don’t think we even recalled the earlier warnings, until we dropped hook and noticed the western sky looking rather ominous. Hmm. Better prepare. We had just begun to secure things on deck when we heard it coming. The air was still but the unmistakable roar of a wall of wind moving across the water was alarming.   I snapped this photo, capturing a flash of lightening, and

and within moments, the water’s surface went from calm to rolling whitecaps crashing over the bow. We considered putting out more rode to prevent us being blown onto shore (the longer the chain or rope, the better the anchor will hold). With Ariose’s bow bucking high on each wave then plunging into the trough with a wall of water crashing over us, we didn’t feel safe even trying. Then the lightening show picked up … always a little scary when hunkered down in a vessel on the water with a tall metal pole sticking into the air. We remained secure and unscathed, and within an hour, the worst had passed. Later, we realized there was more we could have done to reduce our windage. Tim designed our solar panels’ mounting with a hinge so that the side ones can close over top, but we didn’t think to do so. We actually zipped in our cockpit enclosure, thinking we’d appreciated protection from the rain, but we should have gone the other direction and removed most of our canvas. Lessons for next time, because there will be a next time.

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As we approached Saint-Jean-Port-Joli the next day any residual feelings of boredom – not that we would have dared acknowledge them – were eliminated as we spotted distinctive smooth ‘whitecaps” in the distance.  We were now in beluga territory. Refrains of “Baby beluga”, the signature song of Raffi, an entertainer popular when my kids were young, running through our heads. We were now focused on scanning the waters, shouting sightings, “off the port bow!”, “there’s another immediately aft!”, and trying, unsuccessfully, to catch a photo of these lovely creatures. They look to be formed from the smoothest white kaolin clay, with their creator leaving an excess glob on their foreheads. That fatty tissue likely helps with echolocation to navigate and locate the 60 pounds of small fish they feed on a day. It’s also believed to aide communication with one another. They’re one of the most vocal of the whales, nick-named the canaries of the sea because of their varied range. At night, I strained to hear their song through the hull, but no chance of that with the usual wracked of wires clanging from within the mast.

Here’s an interesting fact: Phlegm from beluga noses – yes, snot – is being analyzed by researchers for stress hormones. I don’t know how it’s collected. I do suspect that those scientists don’t get invited to many dinner parties. With the noise of tankers, and the constant stream of whale watching tour boat traffic, I  imagine the stress levels are extreme (for the whales, and maybe the now-socially isolated humans studying them, as well).

As we continued, we began to learn to use our radar, one of our major upgrades to Ariose. It’s given us confidence now that we can “see” freighters hiding in the fog banks, or when we look ahead to clouds pouring down from the mountains, .we don’t need to feel anxious. I can even spot suspicious small green vessels rowing near (note the photo on the right of the ipad screen showing a red dot off Ariose’s port). Ah, that one is friendly!

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Within a few more days’ sail, we reached Tadoussac, at the mouth of the Saguenay fjord and the St.Lawrence. We’re so grateful to Lisa and Guy for having introduced us last year to this remarkable area . Something about the very cold fresh water mix with saltwater, and the unique currents in the area, draws all sorts of marine mammals. And their human stalkers, er, watchers.

Apparently, over a dozen kinds of whale are found here, most remaining for the summer to feed and fatten up before heading south to more comfortable, but less nourishing waters. Kind of like what Ariose is up to. We just saw 2 species: belugas and minkes. I say “just”, but our sightings were anything but “just”. Amazing? Astounding? Awesome? Difficult to put into words.

We hung out around the Tadoussac/Saguenay area for a week. A wonderfully memorable week. We timed our entry into the Saguenay on the early part of a rising tide to avoid currents that can be strong enough to spit us back out into the St.Lawrence. We set our hook inlovely Anse à la Barque, a less than 2km walk into town, along the Parc National du Fjord-du-Saguenay’s trail system.

We had a neighbour at our anchorage, or rather neighbours. It was interesting chatting with the owners of the one other sailboat, Montrealers who spend their summers cruising the outer St.Lawrence. It was even more interesting being entertained by the resident grey seal. While rowing to shore one day, we approached it, holding the oars quiet as we drifted closer. It was looking the other way, oblivious to our approach. Back pack off carefully off, phone removed and in hand, and still oblivious. Then as we were about to collide, I called a gentle “hey big guy” , causing it to turn, suck in air through rounded nostrils, clamp them tight, and get out of there. We were relieved it didn’t choose to lean its chubby 400-500 pounds into us and cause us to be the ones to take a dive.

Tadoussac is a touristy town, but without crossing the line into kitsch. Whale watching is clearly the local economy’s mainstay, with excursions being offered on everything from kayaks to zodiacs, to large enclosed vessels for those who prefer a not so close connection to nature.  Many also spend hours on the smoothened rocks and enjoy more than their money’s worth of sightings.

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While re-provisioning in Tadoussac, we stumbled across services for travellers who are roughing it … showers! Next excursion into town was with toiletries and towels. A $1 investment gave 5 glorious minutes of hot water – enough to scrub 2 long overdue-for-a-cleaning bodies. Then, ‘cause you only live once, we put in a 2^nd loonie and soaked up the opulence of more steaming water pouring from above.

Personal hygiene standards take a big dive when living on a small boat with limited fresh water and a kettle as our heating device. As much as we savoured the experience, the giggling couple in the stall next to us seemed to get even more pleasure from their shower than did we.

Tadoussac’s marina has a unique feature. The interpretive centre’s parking lot is below water level but kept dry with a lock-type door, transforms into a winter boat storage yard. At the highest tide each fall, the doors open intentionally flooding the area, boats are floated in and over their respective cradles. Then with low tide, water flows out and doors are shut. Safe and secure and dry for the winter. A dock attendant described the scene to us. Sounds like quite the team effort to get this done within the few hours that nature allots.

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Last year, we glimpsed up the Saguenay fjord, and vowed to return to see more. So we did. We spent 3 days sailing inland, but could have easily spent 3 weeks exploring the 170km. The landscape felt nostalgic for me. There’s a majestic rock face on my home waters of Lake Temiskaming, known as Mani-doo Aja-bikong (many refer to as Devil’s Rock). Sailing up the Saguenay was like taking that granite escarpment and enlarging and extending it. Some peaks are over 1000 feet. Magnificent. If we could see below the surface, with depths plunging to nearly the same, we’d be marvelling at that too.

The whales seemed to appreciate those depths. We had many sightings of beluga pods and minkes, but one night was particularly incredible. Tim had been at the helm for much of the day and was early to bed. A couple hours after dark, I heard the unmistakeable – and close! – whoosh of a whale coming up for a breath. I woke Tim and climbed into the cockpit to check it out. There were more. For over half an hour, a pod seemed to be partying all around Ariose, noisily exhaling here and there. What an experience, rocking gently in the pitch black, seeing nothing, but hearing and sensing and being honoured by the presence of these graceful mammals.

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Sadly, it was time to move on. We do want to make Nova Scotia before the weather turns too chilly. So back to Tadoussac where we topped up our water and diesel jerries, and headed across the Saguenay to Saint-Firmin to anchor for the night.

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We intended an early departure when the currents would be favourable. Next morning, plans changed. We awoke to thick fog. Not just thick, it was a wall.

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Yes, we now have radar, but at this point had only minimally experimented with it. This is such a busy area with whale watching tours, and shipping freighters, so it seemed wise to stay put. It was a relaxing day, and a project and chore day, punctuated with the excitement of minkes keeping us company.

Although they are one of the smaller fin whales, from the perspective of our  30 foot, 9000 pound boat, the 20-30 foot, 20,000 pound creatures seem massive.  With each high tide, they moved in, and delighted us as we watched them, or were they watching us? Such a surreal experience to be sitting at anchor, enjoying dinner, while scanning the waters around us waiting for the next to surface as they ate theirs. What a privilege.

The following day, we were off. We timed our start perfectly, with currents pushing us out on our way into the St.Lawrence. We sped along at over twice our usual, reaching up to 10.4 knots under sail. This, for Ariose, nears her record of 11 point something when riding the Gulf Stream on our first adventure. Fun!

So, I could, and perhaps, should, end with that. We had no idea that the gremlins that have plagued us on past voyages, were about to visit. That’s the reality of cruising. Things can change so quickly. No, I’m not going to get into it until next Ariose Note. Our Québec to Tadoussac leg has been wonderful. Period.  I’ll leave it at that.

OUR FIRST WEEK UNDERWAY & THE WORK COMPLETED TO GET US HERE!

Travelling from Montreal to Quebec City – what would take a mere 3 hours by car – filled our first week, and settled Tim and I back into the cruising groove.

On the 2^nd morning, we woke to birdsong at our marshy anchorage, and the dopamine-fuelled joyful realization that we were really underway. We were no longer toiling under timelines; our days could unfold as we wished. We could now reap the rewards of the work invested. This Ariose Note will share highlights of our first week underway, and then, for other keen boat-owners or wanna-be’s, we’ll run through the projects we completed to prepare Ariose for this voyage.

The St.Lawrence offers interesting variety. We’ve passed industrial areas, and pastoral lands, with ever-present church steeples as waypoints marking our distance. We’ve shared the waters with all sorts of vessels. We sailed by the dystopian-like waterfront of Sorel-Tracy, snaked through Lac St.Pierre to Trois Rivieres, raced double-speed through the Richilieu Rapids – no portaging necessary –  to arrive at Quebec City. We’ve enjoyed idyllic peaceful anchorages and others where wonky currents stressed our chain rode, and our sleep, through the night. (Click on images if you’d like to enlarge them.)

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Life aboard Ariose is feeling comfortable. We are still organizing and reorganizing supplies, trying to figure out how best to stow things in our small space. It’s quite an art. Things need to be easy to access when needed, heavy items forward on the boat to balance the weight of the solar panels mounted aft, they have to be placed so that they won’t get battered, or damage the boat, or create anxiety-triggering noise in rough conditions, and if sensitive to moisture, won’t get wet. More on this latter point when I get into the boat projects.

Last year’s shakedown cruise has allowed Tim and I to recover our sailing skills quickly. We’ve made surprisingly few goofs, save a notably horrendous anchoring. What’s that? You want to hear more?

It was getting late on our 3rd day. Many folks use their motor to get in to where they will anchor, and employ it again when departing. We’ve become pretty good at sailing up to anchor (note the smug tone) . No engine needed. We’d already successfully anchored twice, and, well, maybe a bit of complacency had already crept in. So far on this voyage conditions had been benign, until this particular evening, that is.  It’s not wise to ignore rules, especially when 1-tired, 2-winds gusty, 3- currents on the strong side, and 4-crew a little rusty.  Despite all those conditions applying, we overlooked a few basic guidelines. One is that in all but the most routine situations, we talk out manoeuvres before taking action. This is probably good practise for any sailors, but for Tim and I who have very different communication styles and ways of looking at situations, it’s imperative.  I was at the helm, and Tim at the bow. I steered to our intended spot, and headed into the wind to stop the boat shouting “drop anchor” as our speed slowed to zero. Tim did so. And then all hell broke loose. The anchor chain noisily raced from the locker as the sails filled and Ariose bolted. Tim tried to stop the chain with his bare hands, and once he managed to get a few loops around the bollard – miraculously, without losing any digits –  Ariose abruptly halted, turned, and took off in the opposite direction. After several 360 degree spins, I finally wrestled down the main, and Ariose was tamed. It took longer to settle our nerves.  The track we left on our electronic chart resembled a drunken spider’s web.

Not only had we neglected the “pre-discuss the plan” rule, we then proceeded to forgo a few more best practices.  We should have realized the increasing wind and currents would complicate things, and planned accordingly. Tim neglected to lay out chain and tie it off before dropping the anchor to prevent it from getting away on him, as it did. I was way too slow in dousing the mainsail to prevent Ariose powering up again, as she did.  It was a wild end to an otherwise pleasant day. No injuries to crew nor vessel, and some valuable lessons (re)learned. Since then, we’ve sailed onto anchor and next morning off, calmly and in control.  One incident in one week… much better than our past track record!

This incident did bring some benefits. During Ariose’s vigorous donuts, the anchor, remarkably, did not budge, proving once again that our Rocna, a new generation design, sure lives up to its promise. Furthermore, hauling up a VERY well set in hook the next day provided an exceptional work-out.

On the topic of exercise, one of the land-based routines I’ve transferred to Ariose is a mid-morning chat with my Mom, followed by a 20 minute session of t’ai chi. Neither of us have been great at keeping up our motivation to exercise, so this works well, and is a nice way to stay connected. My efforts at boat t’ai chi are not graceful, but I’m pleased to say I have not given myself a fat lip and I have provided Tim with a morning laugh.

Tim and I expected to make quick progress as we headed out the St.Lawrence, benefitting from the dominant westerly currents and winds.  Winds, however, have been consistently north-easterly, which happens to be exactly the direction we need to travel.  This has lead to some long days of sailing close hauled, with multiple tacks across the shipping channel. It is impossible to go directly into the wind when under sail. It is possible to sail slightly off it, zig-zagging (or tacking) upwind. We’ve had several 9 hour sailing days, covering a decent 50 nautical miles of water, but as the seagull flies, only making less than 20 miles. Glad our  timelines are loose.

So overall, we’ve enjoyed our downstream travel on the St.Lawrence, but the actual sailing has been a hard slog. And that is my awkward segue into part 2 of this post, which is the hard slog, i.e. the boat work, that went into preparing Ariose for this voyage.

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Last year when we set out, it seemed that Ariose was well prepared. We did make a to-do list before tucking her in for winter, and with spring’s arrival, brought it out and added more items. That’s a cruel reality of boat ownership: the list only grows!  So here we go with the repairs and improvements Tim and I have bestowed upon Ariose this spring/summer.

REPAIR – Gouges in Ariose’s keel were painful reminders of my disastrous attempt on last year’s final day of sailing to turn her into an amphibious vehicle. It felt redemptive to grind them out, repair with epoxy, prime and put on a few coats of anti-foul paint. Accessing the base of the keel with a gap just slightly wider than my fingers was tricky.

 Little-by-little, it got done, and looked good as new!  If only all life’s mistakes could be so erased without a trace. While I was at it, I gave Ariose’s belly another coat of antifoul.  This wasn’t necessary with only had a few months in the water since the last paint job, but we’re not sure when we’ll next be on the hard, so it seemed prudent to do so now. This under-the-water paint slows the green beard growth, and dissuades little critters like barnacles from colonizing. Hmm. Should I have saved a little to try on Tim?

This next major repair was necessitated by others’ mistake. Last fall, while hauling out, marina staff had insisted on placing wooden blocks on the trailer under Ariose’s keel. It didn’t seem wise, but we always feel at the mercy of the operators. They do, presumably, have lots of experience, and know their equipment, but, we know all too well, errors can be made (insert). Yet, if we are one of “those” owners that insist they change their preferred technique, things will likely not go well and may not go at all. The blocks they used raised Ariose to the end range of the supports on her trailer, and didn’t provide the grip of the usual rubber mat. During our Montreal-to-North Bay transit, Ariose slipped slightly, causing a pad to break loose from the bow support and the remaining metal plate to carve a gouge in her recently painted nose. Nasty, yes, but it could have been MUCH worse.

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We debated doing a “good enough” repair vs aiming for a professional quality finish. An eager consultant at Awlgrip convinced us that if we invested a few hundred more dollars and many more hours, we could achieve perfection. So, along with that offending gouge, we tackled the other nicks and scratches Ariose had incurred: meticulous sanding, filling, fairing, priming, spray colour coat, spray multiple clear top coats.  Sounds quick – it wasn’t. Sounds easy – it wasn’t. Either conditions or our skill set or both just weren’t right. Most of the “fixed” areas were now more obvious than before the repair. Tim did come to the rescue, buffing and polishing out the worst spots. Ariose now looks a little patchy close-up, but pretty from a distance, kind of like her crew.

Then, to ensure Ariose was better prepared for her next road-trip, we used a bottle jack, cautiously lifting her 9000+ pounds to replace the wood blocks with heavy rubber, then manoeuvred her forward, what felt like a millimeter at a time. Ariose was sitting solidly on her trailer once again, and, for good measure, is also sporting 2 additional tie-down straps and brand new tires.

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BEAUTY – In addition to that repaint, other parts of Ariose also got some TLC. We stripped and refinished the spreaders (the “arms” 2/3 of the way up the mast that hold shrouds out to secure the mast). Now, Tim has something to admire when he’s up there.  All the brightwork (woodwork) also got another coat of Cetol, and the maple sole (cabin floor) another coat of varathane. Ariose was thoroughly scrubbed, inside and out. She shone.

SAFETY – We plan to continue on this voyage as long as the rewarding days outnumber the trying ones. Not many things can dampen the enthusiasm for life at sea, though, as getting caught unprepared in an emergency situation, so beefing up our safety gear took priority in our project list.

Storms. We’ll do our best to avoid extreme conditions, but with the climate crisis fueling more severe and less predictable weather and with our intention to cruise through a hurricane season or more, we have to consider the possibility. A deep Google dive convinced us that a Jordan Series Drogue would be a reassuring piece of kit to have aboard in the event all other storm tactics fail, and it’s time to batten down the hatches, head downwind, and pray to Poseidon.  This drogue is a series of small parachutes tied to a lengthy line that is weighted at the end. While running with the wind, the drogue remains “anchored” in a least a following wave or two, thus slowing the boat, holding it in a good position for waves strikes, and also keeping the stern down to prevent pitch-poling capsize. The evidence of its effectiveness is compelling, allowing boats (and panicky crew) to go from a state of chaos to relative control. Better yet, it is DIY-able and we could save over $1500 if we made it ourselves. Another project added to my list. It was straightforward to make, but the sewing and splicing incredibly tedious. Absolutely mind-numbing! Maybe, should we ever need to deploy it, that karma will re-emerge to further calm things down. We’ll trial it sometime in the next few weeks and will share more about this ingenious device then. 

Water. Inevitably, water makes its way into the boat and settles in the bilge, which is okay in small amounts. In large quantities, it can threaten to turn a boat into a submarine. We have one manual and 2 automatic pumps. Testing their capacity was on Tim’s list.  Each electric pump ran well, emptying about 5 gallons a minute, but – strangely – a lesser rate when both ran at the same time. What? The 2^nd is intended to kick in if the 1^st is overwhelmed. It is supposed to increase the volume of water evacuated, not reduce it. This made no sense. Detective Tim folded himself into the locker and peered into the bilge to track the plumbed route. His findings? The existing 1” through-hull through which the hoses exit seemed too small and was causing a bottle-neck. So, another project: Out came the hole saw and Ariose now has another, larger, opening. Also, the T-fittings that joined the 3 pump hoses caused one stream of water to interfere with and actually slow the other.  It took a while, but Tim finally found suitable Y-fittings, so now the flow is streamlined where hoses merge.

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We’re really pleased with the result. Both pumps running concurrently evacuate 5 gallons in only 10 seconds, and double that with the addition of the manual pump. Very reassuring!

Other safety upgrades?  A neighbour, having sold his boat, very generously gave us a life raft, a back-up vhf radio, hand-held GPS, ditch bag with survival supplies, an EPIRB (satellite alert device) and a robust medical kit including supplies to treat gunshot wounds! (He lives part-time in Texas.) Thank you so much, Steve. We also mounted our new radar and wired it. We can now see through the dark and fog. Seems like magic. We re-secured all stanchions (the posts that hold our lifelines in place around the perimeter of the deck), and made security bars for companionway that won’t impede our exit from the cabin but do add a layer of difficulty for any intruders.

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HARDWARE
A cleat on the toe-rail track at mid-point on Ariose’s starboard makes docking on that side ever so much easier. As we get within a safe step from the dock, one of us disembarks with the line secured on that cleat in hand, and ties off to the dock. We can then take our time and tie the rest of the docklines.  No frantic lasso or yanking shenanigans required. On the portside, where mysteriously, no such cleat exists,  docking can be a harried affair. Either bow or stern line is taken to the dock and secured, and inevitably, the other end of the boat will swing out threatening the expensive yacht docked alongside. This simple cleat retails at what seems an unreasonable $200, so I’ve kept an eye open for the last few years on used part sites. This spring, I thought I found a substitute. And the seller threw it in my pile of treasures for no additional cost.

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In the end, we should have just put out the cash and got the proper cleat. This new one mounts on the deck, and because it lifts/retracts, is not a toe or line-catching hazard. Cool design, I thought. I drilled the required holes (poor Ariose! More holes), epoxied and redrilled to protect the balsa core from water, made and installed a backing plate, and la voila, we could be masterful dockers on either side. It never occurred to me – until our first heavy rain – how effective a conduit this retractable feature would be. Outside water now pours into the cupboard where we usually stow electronics. This style of cleat, when bought new, comes with a catch basin and hose that is plumbed to the bilge, to be pumped out by – as you now know – the bilge pump. So one week into our voyage, and this snazzy new cleat has been sealed up and taken out of service until I have the energy to uninstall it and repair the deck. Sigh.

Okay – I’m going on too long. I’ll speed it up. Tim added bracing to solar panel arch, and in the ELECTRICAL Department, repaired the steaming light, and added deck lights on spreaders. What luxury to be able to see what we’re doing after dark or what is causing that annoying clanging. He also added a new inverter and a new receptacle for AC to charge our laptops in the cabin. He reinstalled the controller, and rewired so everything goes through a shunt to monitor amperage. Lots of small CONVENIENCES were completed, like creating fridge organizers to prevent small chunks of cheese and other goodies from escaping, only to be discovered weeks later, lodged in the crevice below once their smell gave them away. I kept my Sailrite sewing machine busy making  bags and more bags, for the cockpit to keep tether, ropes, and sunshades handy, at the mast to tame bundles of lines, at the bow to contain the secondary anchor chain, errand bags, and more. And we now also have new curtains to keep hot sun and peering eyes, out, and padding on the emergency tiller post so no more bruised ankles.

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Our Yanmar ENGINE got some attention too, with a repaired and better secured exhaust.  The back flow preventer had chafed through and was leaking. Fixed! When we filled the diesel for winter, a leak at the intake made itself known, so it got repaired too. Add to that, regular engine and bilge pumps maintenance.

In addition to repairing the gooseneck (where the boom connects with the mast) and replacing the genoa’s furling line, we completed the RIGGING upgrades suggested by Danny, the marine surveyor extraordinaire who inspected Ariose last year. This included adding a connection between the foredeck and the bulkhead to transfer forces exerted by the stormsail’s removable stay. No chance now of that stay separating our deck in gnarly conditions. Another Danny find was that our forestay (holds the foresail but more critically, keeps the mast from falling), which should allow movement in 4 directions, was installed in a way that restricted it to only fore-aft wiggle. Like so many binary perspectives in life, this unnatural strain could eventually cause failure, and that could be catastrophic.  It took a bit to get our heads around what we needed, but eventually found and installed the proper hardware – the descriptively named double jaw toggle.

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Whew! When Tim reads this post, he’ll likely remind me of projects I’ve forgotten, but I’ve clearly detailed (more than?) enough. When people learn I’m retired and ask how I’m enjoying not working, I’m at a loss how to respond.

Early summer, with our projects surprisingly on track, we decided to take a day off. We headed to Georgian Bay to lend a hand. Friends were launching Nimbus IX, their newly purchased Alberg 30. So much fun to share in Sue & Steph’s excitement.  Witnessing the labour they have ahead, and recognizing how much work is now behind us was also a welcome morale boost.

That’s it for this post. As recompense for persevering through that arduous post, here’s a preview of where we’ll pick up in our next Ariose Note: Our mooring at the base of Quebec City’s Pont Jacques Cartier. Ahh. Now that’s reaping the rewards.

Have we left home yet? Were there any, er, incidents this time?

Tim and I have been wished a boring start. An uneventful launch. An utterly unexciting beginning to this, our 3rd voyage on Ariose, our Alberg 30.

On our maiden voyage in 2015, we were novices. Within 18 hours of departure and a cascading series of newbie mistakes, we found ourselves on the rocks. Not our relationship. Our boat. Literally. A few harrowing hours later, with Coast Guard search & rescue getting practice in rappelling down to us from the sky, we were freed from the smashing and grinding, and limped back to our start. A month and a new rudder later, we set out again. That first day brought with it the hardest-earned of many lessons on our 9 month journey from Lake Ontario, via the New York canals and Intracoastal Waterway, to the Bahamas and back. That voyage, meant to “get the cruising bug out of our system”, despite the difficult lessons, just served to infect us more severely. We dreamed of setting sail again.

Our 2nd attempt, last year, was less than certain. Covid vaccines offered promise of lifting restrictions, so we thought we’d give it a go. We aimed to explore the Caribbean, but this time to take the more challenging St. Lawrence route to the Atlantic before turning south. Once again, that voyage started out badly. When lifting Ariose, incorrectly placed crane straps slipped causing a heart-stopping, couple-foot drop before the rudder (yes- the new one from our first voyage) bore the brunt of our boat’s 11,000 pounds. After a month of being baked-in-Ariose in the marina parking lot through an extreme summer heat wave, we had yet another new rudder. Tim and I then belatedly headed off. We spent a pleasant 2 months sailing from Kingston to Rimouski, but the longer voyage was not meant to be. With winter approaching, the US border not yet opening to recreational vessels, and my father’s health taking a downward turn, we called it. We sailed upstream and headed home. This wasn’t the year for us.

If you’re interested, check out ArioseNotes’ Archives 2016-2017 and 2021 for our (detailed! ) accounts of those voyages.

So will this, our third time, be a charm?

There’s been some trepidation associated with this 3rd voyage. My anxiety grew as our departure date approached. Hard to shake that ominous feeling, that feeling of certitude as we awaited the next incident. I could sense something calamitous lurking just ahead, something dire that would rob us of our dream. And yet, there were so many positive indicators.

Tim and I had enjoyed winter, relaxing or more accurately, semi-hibernating, in our off-grid cabin. We drafted plans for the home we hope to build whenever we tire of the sea and return to terrestrial life. We intend to employ as many natural materials and processes as possible, using wood from our forest, soil from our land, and straw from local fields. What we can’t source naturally, we hope to reclaim. This spring, we lent a hand with a nearby home demolition and scored all the roofing material we’ll need. Planting seeds for this next dream somehow helps embrace our current one.

I relished time over the winter and spring with my kids who are spread wide across the country. We got together at our place in North Bay, and I also travelled to their homes in Southern Ontario, Quebec, and British Columbia. For the latter, Tim and I tied in a fun road trip across Canada. Nothing replenishes my heart more than time with my kids, and a full heart is a good thing to carry with you when sailing.

Other family time together was particularly precious. My vibrant 91 year old father’s health, as I’ve mentioned, took a downward turn. His final decline was quicker than anticipated . Had Tim and I continued on our voyage, I’m not sure I would have been able to return in time , so I am especially grateful for our decision. Over the course of the winter, my father reminisced, shared regrets, and peeled back a lifetime of layers revealing an emotional side we had rarely seen. Ultimately, as his lungs gave notice that they were nearing their expiry, he orchestrated the details of his death, said his goodbyes, and approached life’s end without fear. Spending his final week, final hours, and peaceful final moments together was truly sacred.

Ironically, in his life’s ending, my Dad offered an unexpected gift. He has always attempted to cocoon me, forever his little girl. This is how he showed his caring, by wishing me a safe, and risk-free life. He was bewildered by my desire to sail. “You should get yourself a pontoon boat and enjoy that little lake you live on,” was a frequent suggestion. He was extremely anxious about our sailing. With my Dad gone, there’s a huge hole in my life, but also a certain relief knowing that as Tim and I fulfill our dreams, I am not causing someone I love sleepless nights. Looking ahead to this 3rd voyage, I feel a little lighter, if only I could get beyond the dread of its start.

Since my Dad’s passing, my mother and I have spent some lovely time together. It is difficult to think of not being within a couple hour drive from her once Tim and I set out. I know, though, that she is excited about our upcoming voyage and is on board Ariose vicariously. I thank my Mom for my adventure genes.

The rich family time helped, but did not alleviate the stressful feelings associated with our upcoming launch. I reminded myself that last year’s truncated voyage, a shakedown cruise of sorts, helped Tim and I get our sea legs back. There would be no “would-we-remember-how-to” jitters this time. Familiarity with the first leg of this journey further reduced worries of the unknown. With returning home just last November, gear was handy and re-packing easier than ever. And yet my apprehension persisted.

Tim and I enjoyed an unusually chaos-free pace of repairs and upgrades as we readied Ariose and ourselves. Ariose has never been in better condition. I’ll share more about those projects for any yachties who may be interested, or for those who are open to being impressed with our industriousness. We also have some great additions to our safety gear, thanks in part to Steve, a very generous neighbour. We should be feeling confident, or at least reassured.

With our boat work, the essentials and many nice-to-haves, completed ahead of schedule – yes! – I treated myself to a week-long canoe trip in Temagami area wilderness with some very special friends. It was incredibly empowering (translation: gruelling!). A perfect send-off. And still, the mixed emotions: anticipatory excitement and apprehension lingered.

A few days later, Tim and I set out slowly towing Ariose to a marina near Montreal, arriving near midnight, and without drama.

A minor scheduling error delayed our launch and mast stepping by a few days – but this could hardly be called an incident. In fact, the extra days afforeded a more relaxed pace of set-up. Ariose has never been better organized.

Tim returned truck and trailer home to finish closing up, while I remained at the marina to organize Ariose. We’re reassured by James, a friend and neighbour, who will keep an eye on our place. We have no time-lines for this voyage. We intend to sail as long as the good days outweigh the trying ones, so could be gone for many months or even years.

So on this, our 3rd, voyage, we’re well prepared. A restful winter, seeds sown of projects that will fulfill us on our return, special time with friends, and an abundance of rich family time. Maintenance and upgrades done. Ariose and crew are more readied than ever.

This relaxed start allowed for some extras, including welcoming our first guests of this voyage aboard.

Over the last months and weeks leading to our launch, I’ve thought of sharing what we’re up to in an Ariose Note. I’ve been updating friends and family almost every day and it would have been easier to just do so with a post. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t bear to make it public that we were close. I couldn’t shake that ominous feeling that if I announced we were on our way, I’d jinx a smooth start. Rather silly.

We have now said au revoir to Club Nautique de Longueuil, a lovely coop marina that we called home for the last week. Dan, a liveaboard who we’ve enjoyed chatting with, offered an unusual parting gift. Tim, who is very particular about the pillow he lays his golden locks upon, was distressed to realize he left his at home. (On hood of my car! Perhaps to prevent my new-to-me vehicle from feeling abandonned?) He gratefully accepted a spare from Dan’s Bayfield, and now, with all necessary gear aboard, we were ready to untie the lines.

Sunday morning at 0930h, we fired up Ariose’s diesel, and headed out into a calm Montreal harbour – without incident. As I click “post”, we have 75 uneventful nautical miles in our wake and 2 peaceful nights at anchor. No drama. No adrenaline. Not particularly exciting to read, I’m sure, but ever so much more appealing to experience.

I am now able to share: Third time has indeed been a charm. Relief!

Welcome aboard & here’s to a continued fair and incident-free voyage!