The Voyage of the MARTINI - Part 2
A Brief Prehistory
By Dave and Jaja

On the Northwest corner of Vancouver Island, at Cape Scott, my dad and I were hit by an unexpected gale that forced us to take refuge with the fishing boats in an open roadsted called Sea Otter cove. When fishermen seek shelter, take heed.

The wind howled out of the mountains at hurricane force; we let out three hundred feet of anchor rode to ensure good holding. A heavy surge was tracking through the bay at an angle, causing the MARTINI to roll her gunwales under about thirty times every minute. If I'd been an explorer I would have named the place Clockwork Cove. Or, maybe I would have called it Puke Bay.

A gust would blow the MARTINI back, and back, and back, until the nylon anchor rode became as taught as the rubber band on a propeller-driven, balsa wood glider. During the intervals between the gusts, when the grip of the wind released us, we'd fly forward at hull speed and surf the incoming surge. The next shrieking gust would waylay us broadside and push back us down the bay.

Later that summer the sun came out from behind purple clouds and it stopped raining. We tied to a public jetty in Buffen Bay* where we met two retired couples who were cruising together on a well maintained 50-foot Kettenburg wooden ketch. They were intrigued about how my dad and I (aged 52 and 19) were able to cope aboard a twenty-five foot production boat on Vancouver Island's rough coastline.

"Follow the fishermen," we said.

The retirees told us about a hot spring that was a short walk away. We followed a well trodden path under a canopy of foliage. The arrival of the sun made the colors of nature vivid. It had been raining for three weeks.

The hot springs were out in the open, at the side of a slow stream. There were many natural pools and a few more had been created with heaped up stones. We'd brought swim suits with us but noticed that a group of hikers were bathing nude, and laying naked on the warm rocks. Our gypsy spirit did not waver. We stripped, then lowered ourselves slowly into the warm water. We hadn't had a bath in a long time. The hot sun felt good on our waterlogged skin.

That night the two retired couples invited us over for sundowners. My dad and I sipped gin and tonics and we answered inquisitive questions about our travels. We admitted that we were headed to Mexico. They drank to our intrepidness, and praised our integrity. They said if wasn't often that a father and son choose to share such intense experiences. They candidly admired us.

We thanked them for mentioning the hot springs and we asked if they had gone up there, too.

"No," the men said primly. "We wanted to take the gals for a dip but when we got there the place was overrun with naked hippies."

Whatever.

* I can not recall the real name of that bay (or the name of the hot springs). My journals are entombed in a cardboard box on a different continent, out of reach.