Freshet

1. Haul Out

A colour explosion of hanging baskets draws your eye down the walkway from the riverside gazebo where I sit at our marina, to the boat yard where the Singoalla is sitting up on blocks with a fresh coat of coal black bottom paint on her keel and a brightly polished blue stripe at the waterline. She looks great and I am sure she feels like she has just had a pedicure. I reflect sadly though, that her hull will be beneath the water tomorrow morning, where I won't see the justification for my aching shoulders and arms and the stubborn black paint around my fingernails. No gain without pain, as the saying goes and I have learned the importance of a complete scrubbing, and a fresh coat of paint, for myself as well as the boat, even if the rest of the world doesn't notice the change.

This morning, the TravelLift, a crane with straps that are positioned beneath the boat while still in the water, had gently cradled her somewhat slimy hull and hauled her out of the water and up to the parking lot where it was pressure washed to reveal a number of chipped spots exposing colourful bits of old bottom paint. Over the last year, the fresh water of the river has killed off the few barnacles and mussels missed by two of our boys a year ago when they had donned diving gear and scraped the hull while the boat had sat at the marina in Comox Bay on Vancouver Island. John, our eldest son, had done most of his diving in the tepid waters off Honduras and had to wear a suit belonging to one of his younger, but larger, brothers – in April. Not a lover of the cold, he had gasped with feeling when the first trickles of refreshing Pacific water leaked into his loose suit after plunging in.

After the boat was set in place and began to dry in the scorching July sunshine, I had cleaned and polished the transom, which is hard to get at when the boat is in the water, while my husband, Jerry, busied himself with Bondo and a gouge in the keel. He replaced the zinc on the prop shaft where it will sacrifice itself to corrosion by electrolysis thereby saving valuable fittings and the propulsion equipment. Then he poured some of the precious, $140 per can, paint into the pan and begun rolling it on while I used a brush to get at the hard to roll parts around the props for the blocks, the cradle chain and the rudder. The work proceeded quickly and we took an early dinner break while the first coat dried.

I had black paint all over my hands and face so waited in the car while Jerry went in to grab a food fair Thai combo and ice tea at the nearest mall. We returned to finish the polishing and apply the second coat of paint. The sun was beginning to descend behind the trees across the river on Sea Island and in the warm glow of evening, we peeled back the edging tape and were thrilled to see the difference a coat of paint could make. We have been so busy for the last six years since we bought our boat. Maintenance has been reactive in the main and we both feel guilty because of it. Our lovely little means of escape deserves better and now, I promise, like some delinquent husband, she will get what she deserves. I plan to make new covers for the hatch and winches and stitch a new bright blue sail cover. Over the next week, Jerry and I can work around the hull from the dinghy, cleaning and polishing the rest of the hull. There's special epoxy paint for fibreglass that we intend to try out for the deck which is badly damaged from the sun. Jerry has already begun work on the interior, sanding and varnishing the wood. Eventually, the sooty looking head liner will be replaced and the well worn foam for the cushions will be retired. I'm just trying to decide whether I should change the fabric covers. I really like the heavy chenille with earth-toned stripes we chose to recover the old cushions with when we bought the boat. I am reminded again of the truth in the now almost cliched words of Ratty, that there really is nothing like messing around in boats .... (Grahame) Once started, it is difficult to stop.

While Jerry makes arrangements for getting Singoalla back in the water tomorrow so that we can head out for a holiday in the Gulf Islands, I have a moment to sit and mull over the events that brought us to this unique place on the Fraser River. It all seems so far off now. September, not even a year ago, flares into my memory like a comet– the time when my life had taken a u-turn because of a decision to return to school after a twenty-three year gap. The Singoalla had been my home then and not just our means to a floating vacation. I suppose you might see it as my personal haul out year.

2. Voyage

So, there we were last September, motoring at about two knots up the river to my new home for the next eight months, a marina on the middle arm of the Fraser. The delta of this mighty river, backbone of British Columbia, spreads broadly over the lower mainland, embracing Sea Island, where the Vancouver airport is located and further south, Lulu Island, which is within the city of Richmond, now home to a large Asian, mostly Chinese, immigrant population. Between these islands, on a shallow, truncated branch of the Fraser's north arm, there are a few marinas, one of which was our destination, the only available, convenient spot we could find in the Vancouver area, all others having long waiting lists or no live-aboard space.

Rising 250 feet above us on the left bank at the mouth of the river, were the heavily forested bluffs of the University of British Columbia endowment lands and behind us, at the meeting with the Pacific, was Wreck Beach, where those who prefer an all-over tan acquired under the watchful gaze of strangers, can do so legally. The land to the right was wide and flat, so unlike what we were used to, the coast of BC being mostly mountainous. The banks of the river, fringed with beach grass and sandy dunes, were scattered with logs that had washed up in storms or broken away from one of the booms that are hauled to mills further upstream. Many of these booms were tethered here, awaiting transport and a boom boat operator sorted logs with his tractor like vessel while a man nimbly scrambled along the bobbing logs to direct him. We passed a tug idling, perhaps waiting for the tide to change. Once in a while a seal would poke its head above the surface to survey his surroundings.

People walked dogs or jogged along the lonely stretches of beach here while overhead, plane traffic roared steadily. The YVR, second busiest airport in Canada, has more than 20,000 arrivals per day. That day, I knew that one of the planes taking off carried our friends to London for the start of a three month holiday in Europe. I waved just in case this was the one.

As we moved closer to the city, houses began to appear in neighbourhoods built on Musqueam First Nations land, and on Sea Island there is a well camouflaged sewage treatment station before a public park with a boat ramp. A sunny sky with puffs of cloud, the broad low lands and watery reflections combined to give the impression that we were travelling through a Dutch landscape. A few motor boats heading out with sports fishermen or returning from sea passed us, their owners proffering the kindly nautical wave.

It was the first day of school but I was already playing hookey because stormy weather had forced us to spend an extra night at Gibsons on our way down the coast. We had enjoyed a day wandering around the pretty little town, fictional location of Molly's Reach in the Beachcombers a TV show filmed there in the seventies and eighties. We had a pub dinner wharf-side before setting out early in the morning to sail, if there was a bit of wind, but mostly to motor, across Howe Sound, crossing the route of the Horseshoe Bay ferry and then south, past the mouth of English Bay where freighters, tankers and container ships rode at anchor waiting for their turn to unload at one of the piers in the Port of Vancouver. Jerry had offered to drop me off in downtown Vancouver so I could take the bus to college and meet him later at the marina but I didn't want to miss this trip up river because it was a new experience for me and still felt like a holiday.

We had left Comox four days earlier under sunny skies. As we were waving from the bay to John, who was to take our vehicle back home, we realized that the keys were still in my husband's pocket. Not a good sign for the voyage, I thought after Jerry called him to see if could get his friend to drive him home for the spare set.

Soon we had passed Goose Spit and were headed east for the mainland, anticipating the excitement of the adventure over gin and tonics when suddenly the boat juddered and Jerry sprang out of the cockpit to the bow. We had slid into the long sandbar that extends southward from Goose Spit and suddenly I was employed to lean as heavily as I could on the boom while Jerry cranked over the tiller as best he could to bring us to starboard and out of the sand. After a panicky struggle, and the fervent realization, that unlike Lord Tennyson, I was not ready to meet my Pilot face to face when I had crost the bar , the hull bobbed freely again and we were off. Hmm, I considered, that made two incidents and we were barely an hour from our slip.

The rest of the day went well though. We dropped anchor in Scotty Bay on Lasqueti Island and the wind that blew up in the night had Jerry on watch in the cockpit for much of the time as it was crowded and we couldn't get a strong hold for our anchor. The wind turned raucous the next day, making us stay put until the following morning when we left under very light winds, jibing between there and Texada Island and then across to the gas dock at Secret Cove on the mainland. The wind disappeared so we motored slowly for the rest of the long day, doing about five knots per hour down the coast. Finally, nearly at midnight, we entered the harbour at Gibsons and not having a completely reliable reverse gear on the engine yet, pulled straight in to the end of the Coast Guard's dock for the night – and then, for a second night, moved into a slip while a storm raged, delaying our trip up the Fraser for a day.

As we finally approached Richmond on the river, I looked ahead to the first of the four bridges that we would have to sail under to get to our berth that night. The first two, the Arthur Laing on the north arm and the Middle Arm Bridge which carries the SkyTrain to the airport, were both a breeze. The third however, the Sea Island Connector, has an allowance of 15 metres at low tide and we would have to get through soon, before the river rose anymore. Immediately after that, the fourth, an old swing bridge, the Moray, would have to be opened for us and this involved phoning the operator who would have to stop the traffic before running the antique equipment which slides open the central section. We tied up temporarily at the River Rock casino dock, where the Fraser's middle arm separates from the north arm, to phone the bridge operator.

All set, we pulled away and our engine promptly cut out. Minor panic ensued as we were being blown back toward the luxury yachts lining the dock. Jerry tried to restart the engine hoping for the best while I moved to the leeward side in hopes of pushing us away from an expensive collision. The engine chugged to life and we were on the move again, out of the moorage basin and into the river. As we approached the third bridge, the engine sputtered again and Jerry shouted to grab the anchor and be ready to drop it in case we lost power completely. The water here swirled with the outgoing tide and we were being pushed around like a cork. He did some frantic fiddling with the throttle thinking that there was just more residual gunk in the line that needed to blow out. I felt sick with horror that we had come so far only to be rammed against the concrete pilings of the bridge within sight of our destination – we definitely weren't boating in home waters anymore. Air and vehicle traffic zoomed above and around us and the modern high rises of Richmond, shone in the distance.

What were we doing here? Immediately, the open, silver sequined waters of Georgia Strait dotted with islands of rocky, heat soaked shores and beaches and the dry crunch underfoot of arbutus groves sprang to mind. I thought of days spent far from vehicles and buildings, often not even encountering another person and the only sounds, those made by the wind and waves, gulls and ravens. Why on earth had I chosen to go to college in a big city?

Suddenly, the engine revved again, we breathed a cautious sigh of relief and moved under the bridge so close to its underside that the mast head antenna, twanged as it bounced against each of the under girders. Motoring toward the swing bridge, we couldn't understand why it wasn't opening. Jerry called and the operator said he couldn't get it to work but that he'd try again. We began circling in the boat, hoping that the engine would keep going as drifting onto the rocks at the waters edge could be disastrous. Again we called and again he repeated that he would try for the third time. When our ritualistic, circling water dance in the entry waters of the middle arm finally bore results and the bridge opened for us, I considered where I was now and knew that I would have Jiao, ancient Chinese dragon god of good fortune to propitiate. We cruised through, with a thank-you wave to the operator. Our marina beckoned to us in the twilight.

Like much of our voyage through life, we had acted on a silly idea we had thrown around, sceptical about results but willing to play awhile. We pulled into our slip and couldn't believe that we were there. Time would tell if we had made a mistake.

3. Into the Middle

The experimental adventure had begun. I had successfully crawled out of my box. People automatically assume that doing something unexpected when you are over fifty, especially if it involves leaving your spouse temporarily, is a midlife crisis or empty nest syndrome – the speculation flies thick and fast. But