Author: douganddanaandaboat

So Trevor and Brenda arrived from Winnipeg and we ate and we drank and we carried on until the wee hours the first night but didn’t really take a single blog-worthy photo.  Meh.  Plenty of time to make up for it, right?

We may or may not have been a bit bleary-eyed when we pulled out and headed for Secret Cove the next morning.  As has been the case for the past two months, of course, we constantly scanned the horizon for the whales everyone up here promised us.  Nada.  Again.  The Merry Island Lighthouse is scenic and all, but hardly a satisfactory substitute.

First stop with our guests?  Secret Cove.  The secret seems to be that the only restaurant for miles requires either a reservation or a prompt arrival at 5:00, neither of which worked for us.  It’s a fully functional marina halfway between Vancouver and Brenda’s sister in Powell River, however, which mostly is what we needed.

Aww.  Ain’t they cute?

Cute yes, but not as cute as the basking seal Dana bagged as we headed out.

Remember those photos—like the one on the cover of Led Zeppelin IV—of old people in Slovakia or Slovenia or some such place all stooped over carrying heavy loads of sticks?  If those old people were smart, they’d get a tugboat and a barge.

Then on in to Powell River.

We had low expectations, mostly because whenever we told someone we were heading to Powell River they invariably responded: “Why are you going to Powell River?  That place sucks.  Go to Lund.”  And we invariably defended our decision by blaming Brenda.

As we neared Beach Gardens Marina, we watched the marina webcam with increasing concern as the one space that might be big enough for Tumbleweed filled with other boats.  The one dockhand couldn’t be bothered to answer either his phone or the radio.  When a hotel maintenance guy finally called back, all he could do was assure us that they’d had sixty foot boats at the marina before, and he seemed confused when we suggested the obvious possibility that there had been fewer small boats clogging things up on those occasions.  But we scrounged up some courage and wedged ourselves in, which both the dockhand and the maintenance guy probably watched with smug satisfaction.

Later—after a bunch of boats left—we looked like cowards.

The other thing is that we couldn’t get shore power at Beach Gardens, even though the dockhand plugged in his 30A incandescent light bulb and assured us the problem was with our equipment.  Trevor worked some Canadian magic, however, and minutes later Brad showed up and re-wired the marina service panel.  Seriously.  He opened the panel and reconfigured some breakers, all without so much as, you know, asking someone at the marina for permission.  But as the sun set on the Malaspina Strait we had power, which is all that matters.

Turns out, all those people were wrong.  Powell River is kind of cool after all.  Powell River has a pirate statue.

Powell River has the Patricia Theatre, which either is the oldest continuously-running movie house in Canada, or is just the oldest in BC.  The Patricia was showing Inside Out 2, which we plan to see sometime when we’re not in Powell River.  We greatly enjoyed Inside Out.

Powell River has “The Hulks.”  The Hulks are a string of retired ships that—according to the sign—make up “what many believe to be the largest floating breakwater in the world.”  Not to be cynical, but most of those “many” believers possibly live right there in the town that offers The Hulks up as a tourist attraction.  Still cool though.  The first hulk was the USS Charleston, launched in Virginia in 1904, commissioned as a navy ship in 1905, then used for various tasks around the world until being sold to the Powell River Company in 1930.  The now-shuttered Powell River Company planted the breakwater to create a harbor it could use while churning out paper products on a massive scale.

Powell River has a pickleball court, surfaced with those plastic interlocking tiles that you see on sport courts that aren’t intended for pickleball.  It’s always great fun to play with Trevor and Brenda though, and the goofy bounces off the tiles provided a convenient excuse for Doug’s incompetence.  We took no photos.

Back at Beach Gardens, however, we took photos.

The familial lines that connect Brenda to Dan and Bonnie are too convoluted for us to understand, but things still worked out well.   Dan and Bonnie are awesome.  They invited us all over for an amazing meal and silly banter about the difference between an American gallon and a Canadian gallon and a sunset walk down to look for whales.

About that.  Bonnie said she saw and heard whales off their beach just the evening before.  Dan promised that we’d see whales the next day when we crossed back over the Strait of Georgia.  Dan also assured us that “There aren’t any mosquitoes here,” however, so while we were watching things that looked exactly like mosquitoes struggling to fly away while carrying litres of our blood we figured he was fibbing about the whales as well.*

While back on the boat after that amazing meal, we ran out with everyone else who was watching the moonrise.

Our guests needed to fly back to Winnipeg out of Comox and we needed to get back to Vancouver Island if we are to see The Butchart Gardens in a few days, so off we went on an unexpectedly gloomy day.

“Look!  There’s a blowhole spout,” shouted Brenda.  Sure enough, our first whale.  Unfortunately it was as far from the boat as the Canadian equivalent of a mile—and we were bouncing around at the Canadian equivalent of eight knots—but we managed to get a really crappy blurry photo just to prove it wasn’t our imagination.  Dan was right about the whales despite his fibs about the mosquitoes.

The skies cleared just as we rounded into Comox.

Comox is a town but also was an indigenous group in the area, although they spelled it K’ómoks.  Apparently the K’ómoks weren’t fazed by the increased difficulty of finding the “ó” on an iPad keyboard.

Sailors in Comox aren’t fazed by the big tide swing.  Just sit on the bottom until the water comes in.  The bonus is that twice a day you can walk into town for groceries and hammer your anchor down if you’re worried about it slipping.

Comox is a decent enough town, but we didn’t want to waste precious game-playing time so we popped into the brewpub for a quick lunch and missed most of whatever Comox has to offer.

Most importantly, Dana and Brenda and Trevor paid dearly for making Doug look foolish on the plastic pickleball court.

We remembered one last photo before our friends returned to Winnipegging** or whatever else they do in Manitoba.  Great fun while they were here.  Fortunately we have Cholla pickleball and a trip to Tennessee with them in our future.  Trevor even says he’ll get a number 16 jersey for the game against Kentucky.

Not much of interest on the run down to Nanoose Bay.  We did see a whale, but mostly it hid underwater.  And a derelict boat.

And the Chrome Island Lighthouse.

Typically, we start googling restaurants about three hours before arriving in a new place.  You’d think that after hundreds of disappointments we’d learn to look at hours of operation before deciding what we plan to order from the awesome menu.  Nope.  Fell for it again in Nanoose Bay.  One restaurant.  Closes at 1 pm on Mondays.  But Dan and Bonnie sent us off with a bag of huge local prawns that went quite well with garlic butter and Old Bay, so it all worked out for the good guys.  That’s about all there was to our short stay.

Today took us back through Dodd Narrows, which we hit at slack only because we wisely factored in our inability to understand the tidal currents and left Nanoose Bay early.  Dozens of other boats decided to ignore etiquette and crowd through all willy-nilly from both sides, making it less fun than if, say, they’d all stayed home.

In our last post, we listed Pamela Anderson—famous for her roles as a Playboy Playmate, a lifeguard, and Tommy Lee’s sex tape partner—as a famous Vancouverite.  Our friend Mary on Feisty Lady follows the blog and is much smarter than us, however, and correctly clarified that although Anderson may have lived in Vancouver, she was born in Ladysmith, on Vancouver Island.  In 2019 she (meaning Pamela Anderson, not Mary on Feisty Lady) moved back to the property in Ladysmith she bought from her grandparents, all of that being handy information when you’re heading to Ladysmith.  The point is, her remodeled house is hidden behind trees, but here’s her new dock, the permit for which was approved over many objections.

Although we arrived to more power pedestal funny business at the marina, this time there was space for us to pull forward.  The Greenline 48 that rolled in after us and had to take the spot we vacated may have been screwed, but we had power, which is all that matters.

Ladysmith originally was a coal town, and by “originally” we mean after the coal company ran off the indigenous tribes who had lived here for centuries.  The mine owner supposedly was so overjoyed when the 1899 siege at South Africa’s Ladysmith ended that he stole the name.  (On a tangentially-related note, Breaker Morant is a grossly-underappreciated movie.)

In one of our posts when we were in Quebec, we noted the province’s ubiquitous motto “je me souviens,” meaning “I remember.”  As in “I remember what those English bastards did to us.”  Ladysmith also remembers.  As in “We remember what we did to those natives when they had coal we wanted.”  So basically the opposite.

Anyway—as often seems to happen with mining towns—the mines closed, the trains stopped coming, and destitution plagued the place until a big revitalization effort.  At least we assume the trains stopped coming.

While Ladysmith indeed seems to have turned the corner and now counts a C-list actress among its residents, we can’t give it five stars until the best restaurants start operating on Mondays and Tuesdays.  Grrrr.  But we ended up at a quirky pizza joint in one of those 1903 coal-mine era houses, so we didn’t starve.

Tomorrow off to Montague Harbour on Galiano Island.

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* Canadian mosquitoes carry blood by the litres.  American mosquitoes carry blood by the quarts.  Canadian mosquitoes who come across the border use liters, “liters” being the correct spelling and all.

** Which reminds us of a joke . . .

Although we’ve been bouncing around southwestern British Columbia for a fair bit now, Galiano Island was our first of the Gulf Islands.  The Gulf Islands are to Canada as the San Juan Islands are to the United States, except Galiano Island has Tommy Transit, which none of the San Juans can match.

The only note of interest from the trip over from Ladysmith relates to radio chatter from what sounded like an even more chaotic day at Dodd Narrows.  Stuff like “You moron, you don’t have the right of way.”  We figure that boat was American—because Canadians are Canadian—but not from Miami—because in Miami the moron would’ve been sexually active with a capital F.  Dodd Narrows is behind us and the water we plowed was protected by bunches of those same Gulf Islands, however, so none of the angst bothered us.

Doug flew the drone.  In a surprise twist, he wasn’t asked by the Canadian Women’s National Soccer Team to video upcoming opponents.

Montague Harbour Marina has just the correct mix of activity and seclusion.  And a cool store with delicious ice cream.  The dude who owns the marina, cool store with ice cream, restaurant, and related stuff, has the entire thing listed for $3 million.  Even without the favorable exchange rate, that’s cheaper than the marina we contemplated buying in Marathon but more than the one with the Victorian B&B in Reedville.

Now about Tommy Transit.  Tommy is a legend in these parts.  A self-described cross between “a Zen master, a stand-up comedian, and Mary Poppins,” he’s a city bus driver who for years summered on Galiano Island, entertaining people on the shuttle up to the Hummingbird Pub.  Everyone said we must ride the bus with Tommy.

Wait what?  They fired Tommy Transit?  $#@&!  The new shuttle driver doesn’t pass out instruments and tell jokes?  Well then screw the Hummingbird Pub, which everyone says sucks anyway.  We’ll just take a photo of what might have been and move on.

Move on by way of scooters, that is.  Dana fashionably grabbed the one that matched her shirt.

Our hop around the island took us to what TripAdvisor says is a top attraction:  the famous Kunamokst Mural, created for the 2010 Olympics.  One hundred and ninety Canadian artists were given squares and a general guideline of shapes and color palettes and then left to paint an independent scene depicting British Columbia.  Then someone put them all together.  It’s quite stunning, but one of us couldn’t get over the fact that those squares are 12” by 12”.  Apparently the metric system is voluntary.

Then up to The Bluffs, where the hike led through an old growth cedar forest—one of a very few that survived the heavy logging that stripped much of the island—and out to an awesome view.

On the way back we stopped at the pottery place.  Based on the little sign, we assume it mostly caters to customers with poor hearing: “Ring the bell for service loudly,” it says.

Speaking of trees, Galiano Island is loaded with the only broad-leaf evergreen native to Canada.  The Arbutus—called Madrone or Madrona in the US—are a protected species in the Gulf Islands because migratory Rufous hummingbirds rely on their nectar.  This isn’t necessarily the prettiest example of an Arbutus tree we saw, but we didn’t discover the above-noted factoids until our only option was to get a photo from the boat.

Remember all the people in Powell River who ran out for the epic moonrise?  We think they followed us to Montague Harbour, which is a good thing because we were wrapped up in an episode of Lessons in Chemistry when they all zipped by with their cameras.  So we grabbed ours and the big lens.  Crazy sunset it was.  This isn’t photoshopped.  It was just that awesome.

Next stop, Ganges.  We’re not Hindu, but figured we’d take a quick dip in the holy river just in case.  Nope.  Turns out the Ganges River is in India, not in Ganges, British Columbia.  Disappointed, we made do with a late lunch at Moby’s Pub, hosed off some salt, briefly checked out the town, and retired to the marina.

It seems odd to us, but the first non-native settlers on Salt Spring Island arrived in 1859.  The natives called them Hwunitum, meaning “people who came from nowhere.”  Also in 1859, perhaps as a nod to those soon-to-be-displaced tribes, Canada’s Parliament declared lacrosse to be the national sport.  Not hockey.

A couple of interesting boats near us.  Longtime followers know that our affinity for “Pearl” names even predates Misty Pearl.  We’ve documented a bunch of them.  Salish Pearl, however, is a first.  We like it.

Second, we found one of Tumbleweed’s sister NPY49s.  Dave and Meredith are taking Sea Harmony up to Alaska next year, so maybe we’ll see them again.

The famous Saturday Salt Spring Farmers Market was the major draw.  Dana loves a good market, so we timed it perfectly.

Meh.  We judge the quality of markets by the number of booths Dana patronizes.  Three was the number this morning.  Three does not speak well of the Salt Spring market.  The best we can say is that if we needed to see a fortune teller there were several from which to choose, and we passed pretty flowers on our way back to the boat.

Because of a dumb CDC rule about dogs that came out when it was too late for us to comply and then was rescinded after we’d already locked in stuff back in the U.S., we’re leaving Canada on July 31.  The Butchart Gardens might deserve a separate post, so we’re teeing this short one up now.

No offense to our sailor friends Jeff and Ann, and Brent and Karen, but as a general proposition sailboats suck.  Sailboats under sail generally have the right-of-way, which they enjoy by tacking slowly back and forth in our path whenever possible.  Begrudgingly, however, we admit that some of them are quite pretty.  Like this one we passed on our way to Brentwood Bay.

Brentwood Bay basically is North Victoria, but when we were in Victoria for the Canada Day Drone and Fireworks Fizzle we didn’t have time to come up by bus.

The reason to go to Brentwood Bay at all, of course, is The Butchart Gardens.  World famous.  Everyone who knew we were going to Victoria said the same thing: “Don’t miss The Butchart Gardens.”  There’s a separate entrance at a dinghy dock in Butchart Cove, so we popped ours down and cruised on in.

In 1904, Bob and Jennie Butchart started digging limestone out of Vancouver Island at Tod Inlet, for use by their cement company.  After exhausting the deposit, Jennie was left with an ugly quarry in her back yard.  Over the years she turned it into what now is a National Historic Site of Canada.

While we highly recommend a visit, don’t go at noon.  Noon is when hundreds of tour buses from Victoria arrive.  Those buses each carry roughly a million slow-moving people who don’t mind stopping wherever they please, even if it’s at the precise spot where we want to stop.  No fun at all, particularly with a small black dog who was at constant risk of a trampling death.  So we punted our first effort and went back at 4.  Much better.

A dogless dinner at The Dining Room after the buses are gone is a great way to cap off a visit to the gardens.

Yesterday was sad and gloomy and rainy, which sucked for the trip around the top of the Saanich Peninsula but was good for extinguishing the wildfire that’s been raging just west of us.

Incidentally, we’ve now learned that smoke from the Old Man Lake Fire is responsible for the almost-apocalyptic sunset in our last post.  So there’s the proverbial silver-lining, we suppose.

We also passed another photo-worthy sailboat, this one with crazy people dangling off the bowsprit.

Anyway, we made it to Sidney.  Sidney is our last stop in Canada this year, thanks to the CDC morons who made a stupid rule about dogs and then waited to reverse that stupid rule until it was too late to help us.  Grrr.  The Port Sidney Marina, however, is fabulous.  Excellent dockhands.  Wide fairways.  Concrete docks.  Hanging flowers that probably are quite stunning in sunlight but we’ll never know for certain.

This morning, more rain.  Fortunately, we carry two huge umbrellas on board for this very situation.  So off we went to walk around town.  Unfortunately, “It looks like the rain is over so let’s not take the umbrellas” proves foolish every stinking time.  But things dried up a bit later and the weather is trending in the right direction.

Dana even bonded with Janet—of Janet’s Special Teas—who gave us a literal tea spoon to go with our Christmas tea.

Here’s a bonus mural we forgot to include before we sent the emails out.  It depicts the moment before terrified natives who should’ve stayed home were dashed into pieces.  All the poor dude in the waffle-cone hat could do was point.

So that’s it for Canada this summer.  Somewhat sadly, tomorrow we head back to the US of A.

On our way back to the Motherland last Wednesday, we hit our first fog of the summer.  Fog sucks.  This was extra odd fog that mostly sat on the water up to about forty feet.  Pleasure boats were invisible, but fortunately we could make out the top of the bulk carrier Dijima as she angled toward our certain death.*

The good news is that after God created fog He invented AIS and radar, although all the mariners who died in fog-related incidents through the ages might argue He waited too long to do so.  The fog momentarily lifted so that we could see a picturesque shed where there should’ve been a lighthouse, and nobody crashed into us.

Very odd weather indeed.

Another oddity is the international border in these parts.  Because the same buffoons who created the ambiguity that sparked The Pig War a few posts ago also left a zigzag border in the path between Sidney and Point Roberts.

Now about Point Roberts.   Point Roberts geopolitically is the weirdest patch of land in these United States.  The Treaty of 1818 established the 49th parallel as the primary border with what now is Canada, which worked just fine between places that don’t really matter, like, say, North Dakota and Saskatchewan.  But British sniveling about Victoria being south of the line prompted another round of negotiations.  Hence the Oregon Treaty of 1846, which gave us the aforementioned goofy zigzag.  In addition to the other screw-ups, the treaty drafters failed to recognize that since 1818 a tiny dangly bit had been hanging down below the border like a 4.8 square mile sized udder.  Point Roberts.  If only they’d consulted Google Maps.

Because the treaty could’ve fixed the problem but didn’t, Americans stuck living on that udder now can’t leave unless they have a boat or a plane or cross an international border.  Kids go to school in Blaine, which means at least two border crossings a day.  The poor slobs in Point Roberts rely on Canadians in Delta or Tsawwassen for water, and fire suppression, and those giant barrels of cheese balls from Costco that nobody ever finishes.  Absurd.**

According to a long-time resident we met, back in the day Point Roberts was quite the den of iniquity.  Canadians streamed across the border every weekend to engage in all manner of mortal sin like drinking, gambling, fornicating with prostitutes, and cheering for the University of Alabama.  Now it seems the biggest excitement is Green Waste Solutions Day at the Community Center.

The marina is pleasant enough though, full of Canadian boats, and—according to the first sign totem pole we’ve ever seen that points only to places we’ve actually been—conveniently located.

Perhaps not surprisingly, restaurants aren’t exactly plentiful on Point Roberts.  One Google reviewer, however, praised the Saltwater Cafe’s grilled cheese sandwiches.  We do love a good grilled cheese sandwich—and the fellow who answered the phone said we could eat on the dog-friendly patio—so all three of us trudged a mile and a half to get to the place.  Only for them to tell us that they’d “run out of food.”  WTF?  No bread left?  No cheese left?  Come on Nancy, make us a grilled cheese.***  But a nice man heard one of us grumbling that the fellow who answered the phone could’ve mentioned the whole “we’re out of food” thing when we asked about eating on the patio, and gave us a ride back to the boat.  Incidentally, here’s “town.”

Decent enough stop, but we probably won’t go back.  We did go back to Blaine though.  We’re killing time until we pick up Shannon and Ray in Seattle, and last time in Blaine we were so cold and focused on moving the boat that we didn’t see much.  Also, nothing had opened for spring yet.

Blaine is famous for several things, the first being where our Cholla pickleball friend Bill and Bill’s wife Melanie live when it’s too hot to live in Scottsdale.  They’re world travelers who rent boats on the canals of Europe, which is next on our to-do list after Alaska.  Great to spend some time with them aboard Tumbleweed and at dinner.

Bill and Melanie used to live on Point Roberts, so also had first-hand knowledge of the travails facing residents.  They mentioned that many folks in Witness Protection move to Point Roberts, which we sort of confirmed through research that consisted of exactly one humorous article in Vancouver Magazine:  What’s the Point of Point Roberts?

Blaine also is famous as the Peace Arch City, although not too famous because we’d never heard of the Peace Arch until this summer.

Here’s the Peace Arch, which bisects the border and seemingly invites people to risk arrest and deportation by walking under it.  Also, who’s this mother we share with Canadians?  Mother Earth?  Mother Ocean?  Mother England?  Old Mother Hubbard?  And whose father shacked up with baby mama first?  So many questions.

No wall on this border.  Not even a river.  Just a small ditch that the nice Canadians from Surrey can step across anytime they want a glass of fresh brewed unsweetened iced tea, which we deduce is illegal in their country.

Despite appearances, this isn’t a photo of downtown Blaine at almost exactly 11:00.  It’s a photo of Sammy at almost exactly 11:00.

Next stop, Anacortes.  Again.  Which is fine, because we like the place.  And we really like the scenery along the way.

Although we’ve pretty much covered Anacortes in prior posts, the blog serves as our travel diary so we have to mention at least a couple of things.  This guy at the bar by Cap Sante, for example, was awesome.

And we managed to leave the Anacortes Art Festival with only four purchases.  Crazy.

Next up, the Swinomish Channel on the way to La Conner.  Even southbound it still looks a lot like stretches of the ICW.

We’ve visited La Conner before, but never by boat.  Turns out the town is just about the same as when you go by car.  Very cute.

This is “The Old Fir Log.”  Seriously.  That’s its official name.  Discovered as a remnant of logging in 1958, someone saved it, cleaned it, and counted growth rings.  Over 800 years.  This bad boy was growing before the Magna Carta set forth the apparently-outdated notion that Kings aren’t above the law.  Before Marco Polo invented that dumb swimming pool game.  Before Chinese fireworkers harnessed the creative power of gunpowder.  Before Nick Saban started cheating.  It’s that’s old.

Speaking of trees, these fools seem to think autumn is here.  Our Phoenix friends currently are fleeing 115°.  Football is still four weeks away.  What the heck is going on?

Dirty Biter was a beloved La Conner town dog, who hung around the tavern eating table scraps but also migrated nightly from house to house.  He tragically died while engaged in one of his favorite pastimes.  The name of the dog that won that street fight is lost to history, but Dirty Biter has a park and a statute.

Then a long but uneventful cruise down to Kingston.  Yup, our third Kingston, but the first one that isn’t in either New York or Ontario.

After a close call related to some poor info from the dock attendant, we tied up next to Lucky Dog, another NPY49.  Gorgeous boat.  Like looking in a mirror.

We’ll be back in a few weeks with more time to explore Kingston, so basically we’ll leave it with just one town photo in this post.  Seems like it might be a fun little stop.

Today we jumped across the Sound to Elliott Bay.****  The soaring Magnolia Bluffs along the way once were home to Fort Lawton, a military base that ended up playing an insignificant role in history, although troops passed through on their way elsewhere and some German POWs were imprisoned there for a short stretch.  The Magnolia Bluffs are cool enough, but don’t eat at Maggie Bluffs restaurant at the marina unless you crave horrible food.  Maggie Bluffs sucks as much as fog.

Yup, tonight we’ll be sleeping in Seattle, where we’re staging for tomorrow when our baby and her boyfriend arrive for a few days.  Wooo!

Here’s the cruise for this post.

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* Maybe it wasn’t fog at all.  Maybe it was smoggy smoke.  Know where there ain’t no smoggy smoke?  That’s right, baby, Good ol’ Rocky Top, that’s where!  Rocky Top, Tennessee.  Everybody sing along!

** Before some smartass from Manitoba or Minnesota chimes in, we know that there’s a similar bit of goofiness at the Northwest Angle and Elm Point.  However, we haven’t been to either place and pretty much nobody lives there, so those don’t matter.  What does matter is that Elm Point and the Northwest Angle are on Lake of the Woods, and Trevor thoughtfully brought us a suitcase full of delicious craft beer and shirts and other stuff from Lake of the Woods when he and Brenda visited.

*** Special meaningless congratulations to anyone who recognized this as our first Step Brothers reference.

**** “Elliott?  You’re gonna name the kid Elliott?  You can’t name the kid Elliott.  Nooo.  Elliott is a fat kid with glasses who eats paste.”  – Walter “Gib” Gibson

Did we mention that the good folks at Elliott Bay Marina didn’t answer our radio calls, which forced us to dock in a too-narrow spot with no assistance?  Well that’s what happened.  But Shannon and Ray made it in from Napa, so our moods brightened considerably.  Always great to see our baby.

After an evening of cards and other funny business, time to head out to Port Orchard.  Past the cruise ships.  By the way, thousands of people pay to take one of these up to Juneau and back.  In seven days.  Did we mention that’s round trip?  In seven days?  To Juneau?  Ridiculous.

If one were to search long and hard enough for remnants of the original orchard that gave Port Orchard its name, one would be very disappointed indeed.  Because Port Orchard honors Mr. H. M. Orchard, a clerk on one of George Vancouver’s Puget Sound expeditions, although it wasn’t called Puget Sound at the time.  There never was an actual orchard.  Whatever.

After a day of cruising, and exploring shops (Dana), or hanging out at Blue Goose Tavern (everyone but Dana), mostly we played games.  Although we raised our girls to be independent, confident, and strong, it’s comforting to know that at least one of us still has superpowers: “Mom!  Dad keeps wiggling his finger at me!  Make him stop!”

Shannon won the Catan game as usual, but Doug won the much more important game of Annoy Shannon.

While at the Blue Goose we asked the locals if anyone famous lives in Port Orchard.  Basically they said no.  Which means either (1) they’ve never heard of Delilah or (2) they don’t think she’s worthy of mentioning.  Yup, that same dopey Delilah who babbles incessantly on KEZ when Dana insists on listening to Christmas music lives in Port Orchard.

The other important moment at the Blue Goose was when Shannon and Ray learned about the 5th Annual Kitsap County Cornhole Classic, a tournament with prizes that included “cash, trophies, and bragging rights.”  Since Shannon and Ray fancy themselves to be expert cornholers and since we had nothing else planned, they signed up.

Their first match unfortunately involved the reigning champs, which led to an embarrassing shut-out for Team Tumbleweed.

But no worries.  They later redeemed themselves by squeaking out a win over Ninja Turtles, the last-place team comprised of an exasperated father and an eight-year-old son playing for the first time at regulation distance.  Sammy didn’t seem impressed.*

Shannon and Ray won no cash.  No trophy.  No bragging rights.  But they did score a raffle prize worth $25 at Brickhouse 714, where that very evening The Hoffmans—a local country band—were scheduled to play.  Grab up the cards and let’s go.

During a break, Hoffman the Elder stopped by our table.  As required by common decency if not by law, Doug asked if they knew Rocky Top.  “No,” the man said, “but if you’re from Tennessee we have something you’ll like.”  Grrr.  Shannon predicted that we’d get the bastardized Chris Stapleton version of “Tennessee Whiskey.”  Grrr.  Yup, that’s what we got, and to make matters worse everyone bullied Doug into smiling at the band as if it was enjoyable.  Grrr.  Other than that, the music was great.

A couple of other things.  Port Orchard has our first Lego store.  Full of everything imaginable related to Legos.  Odd name though.  Did they misspell “Alley?”

And a car show.  We’re not that into car shows, but Doc Brown’s DeLorean was kind of cool.

Speaking of cars, the ports of Seattle and Tacoma offload some 200,000 vehicles every year.  Which explains why Roll On, Roll Off ships are anchored all up and down Puget Sound.  As an example, here’s RCC Compass waiting her turn.

Standing tall in Pete Ohman’s backyard above the Colvos Passage is a 55-foot replica of the Washington Monument.  His dad Stan built it some twenty years ago, after Pete and his drinking buddies came up with the idea.  We’d probably like hanging out with Pete and Stan.

The smoke and clouds parted just enough for a crappy photo of Mount Rainier.  Better than nothing.

Remember those crazy videos of Galloping Gertie?  The first bridge at Tacoma Narrows collapsed after fluttering spectacularly in windstorm-driven mechanical resonance.  We didn’t go down the narrows, but in another brush with history we passed close enough for a photo of the replacement bridge.

Then in to Gig Harbor.

The daily gloom didn’t seem to faze the Venetian gondoliers.

We’ll be back to Gig Harbor over Labor Day weekend, so didn’t do much exploring.  This trip mostly was about Shannon and Ray.  A window of sunshine allowed a dinghy ride around the harbor.

The harbor seal we passed didn’t seem impressed.**

On their last day, the kids took the kayaks for a morning spin.  Those fuzzy little specks down towards the lower right corner of the drone photo aren’t crumbs on your screen.  They’re Shannon and Ray.

Here’s a better shot of them.

But all good things must come to an end, as the cliche goes.  In our context that meant taking Shannon and Ray across to Des Moines to catch their flight from SeaTac.  Along the way we passed the Point Robinson Lighthouse.  The guy behind the fabulous Bloom County comic strip wrote Red Ranger Came Calling, a children’s book heavily featuring Point Robinson and the lighthouse.  Supposedly orca pods periodically have played around Point Robinson since the first light was constructed in 1887, although based on our experience we’re skeptical.

We got a nice spot on the visitor dock at Des Moines and might’ve stayed longer, but Ted Bundy killed one of his early victims around there so it seemed wiser to just walk to Wally’s for a delicious farewell lunch and then head back to Gig Harbor.

Awesome few days, but not long enough.  Sad to see them go.

Although Gig Harbor is charming and famous and historical, this time around it’s mostly just been a place to stop.  So after a quick turnaround and a photo of the cool little underwater world off our stern, we headed back to Seattle.

Here’s the Alki Point Lighthouse, guarding the southern entrance to Elliott Bay.  No, it’s not the tall thing.  The tall thing is the Space Needle.  The lighthouse is the thing in front.

Washington trivia time!  Washington is the only state without an official motto.  “Alki,” however is the unofficial one.  It’s a Chinook word meaning “By and by,” which frankly seems like a dumb motto.  But we rounded Alki Point safely and headed into the city.

Sammy’s 4:00 walk took us down a path of sculptures, which maybe we’ll cover further next time we’re here.  As a taste though, here’s a naked guy named Sam.  Or maybe SAM is the Seattle Art Museum.

Seattle’s Pike Place Market is on every visitor’s must-do list, so of course we went.

Since it’s on every visitor’s must-do list perhaps we shouldn’t have been surprised to find all those visitors clogging up the joint, but we hate crowds so only stayed long enough to buy some pasta.  And nuts.  And bread.  And a candle.

Seattle is home to the first Starbucks, and buying something at the first Starbucks apparently is on the must-do list of enough people to create a block-long line.  Fortunately, the first Starbucks was on our must-skip list so we just walked on by and by.

As documented in this blog, we’ve seen some things.  Scary things.  Interesting things.  Clever things.  Funny things.  Dumb things.  Not any really disgusting things, though.  Until now.  The gum wall along Post Alley is so disgusting that Dana turned around just as we reached the smell.  Hundreds of gross people a day stick their gum on top of gum left by prior generations of gross people.  Now that’s disgusting.

There’s a lot of Seattle we’re missing, and possibly some of it is neither crowded nor disgusting.  Maybe next time.  Tomorrow Sammy’s other sister arrives.  Wooo!

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* As uncomfortable as it looks to rest your chin on the arm of a folding chair, the arm of a folding chair has to be better than, say, a dock cleat.

** See footnote * above.