The Last Voyage of the Al Ray

I relate to you now the first of many true but seemingly far-fetched tales: "the Last Voyage of the Al Ray” (AKA “The Towing of Boats"). You might want to get a refreshment, for ‘tis quite a yarn, deserving a proper telling, indeed. Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved (with the exception of the “christened” and those no longer with us in the flesh).

So, a dear friend and brother (whom we shall refer to as Ivan) has an old motor yacht; a 1946 Monk. Ivan loves these old boats, and having spent many a fine hour aboard one I can hardly fault him, as I also share the sentiment. All Monks were designed by a local Puget Sound shipwright and Naval Architect named George Edwin William Monk Between 1914 and his death in 1973....they are a rare breed of boat, and ALL of them are considered as having a unique and compelling ‘character’ for those who can truly appreciate such things; with many still identifiable by their original christened names even. Each were hand built -beam to transom- in actual working boatyards (not merely another ‘unit number’ off an assembly line), registered at point of origin, and thus have a traceable history throughout their functional lifespan. It is indeed a select few who are honored with the responsibility to care for them, for even if found in such a state of disrepair so as to be cheap enough for one of modest income to purchase, such boats generally require such extensive work to make them “ship-shape and Bristol fashion” that those with more of an interest in something akin to a “low maintenance pleasure craft” will quickly exceed the limits of both patience and budget (even though they are ever tempting to any “enthusiast”). Owning a Monk is best approached as a ‘labor of love,’ and this is precisely why it is common for older, neglected Monks (or any such quality wooden boat) to be donated to boat building schools as projects. Even in a potentially sorry state, the construction quality and design of a hand-built boat is such that a keel-up restoration is both do-able and worth the effort; so long as a single owner is not paying out of pocket for the extensive labor, materials, etc.

So, after Ivan’s Monk was towed up to Port Townsend for some much needed maintenance work, and with it estimated as needing to be in dry dock over the entire summer (AKA: perfect boating weather), Ivan started getting the itch for a potentially bigger boat that could accommodate a larger crew and/or passengers as another worthy addition to our motley "fleet” (which at that point consisted of the Monk, a couple of runabouts, an equal number of kayaks, plus a friend’s Chris Craft ski boat and twin-engine Egg Harbor live-aboard). So, after some dedicated window shopping, a nice 39' one in Port Orchard was located for sale. She was then pulled out of the water, fully inspected, and generally passed the resulting survey...she did have one unfortunate, unrelated problem, however (and one likely reason for the “reasonable” price): it had been remodeled in the recent past, and the "improvements" didn't even come close to matching the style and/or original lines of its era (I think some call it “modernized” a classic boat enthusiast calls it “a travesty”), so Ivan hesitated investing the (still “considerable”) money, with hopes a more “original” option would turn up that might prove more tempting. Also, he wisely didn't want to get into another classic boat without a proper boathouse to keep her in, and as they've now strictly regulated the shoreline of the Puget Sound so that one cannot build them anymore (only utilize such covered moorage as is already in existence), it was decided another boathouse would need be at least “arranged” before another classic boat purchase. Unfortunately, the task of finding a vacant boathouse nearby proved difficult (at best), and even more time and energy was spent searching obscure marinas to find one suitable for the purpose at hand. In the course of just such searching, our wayward ways found he and I wandering up to Marrowstone Isle on a late-summer day. While indulging in an extended loitering around Mystery Bay, we happened to notice a lone, distant blue hull rolling lazily upon the waves far out near the mouth of the bay. "That looks like a Monk…" we agreed and then joked about "abandoning" it (our slang-term for pirating: "that boat looks abandoned, lets claim it as salvage!") but after a snack from the Nordland store and a quick cigarette break, we left at last to continue on the day’s adventure...

…not long after, while Ivan and Pete (fellow Monk enthusiast and all around salty dog) continued searching high and low for a boathouse/moorage, they happened to stumble across a rather odd group of people who lived near the Bangor Submarine Base. Come to find out, they were an old maritime settlement of Norwegians, who throughout the years had built a community (complete with clubhouse) that during some moment of inspiration also (rather boldly I might add) declared themselves the "Democrat Victory Party Center" with grandiose plans to have a huge beach party and celebration for "…when the president wins reelection.” They were all quite interesting characters; equally salty dogs and eccentrics, and Ivan/Pete immediately took a liking to them: particularly Al Ray, who had revealed his dream of finding an old boat, dragging it ashore, and turning it into a bunkhouse/bar just above the tideline. Inspired by such a bold project (and having previously conceived of such an idea himself) Ivan generously promised "Don't worry Al, we'll find you one." And so now, along with trying locate another potential worthy Monk for the "fleet" (and a suitable boathouse), we were also collectively looking for an old careworn Monk that we could find “down low on the cheap” and somehow also manage to get all the way to Bangor (because, of course, only a Monk would be cool enough -not to mention have solid enough bones- for such an endeavor).

So early one morning while Ivan and myself were having a morning cigarette and drinking the first of many cups of coffee, Ivan gets a call from Pete: "Hey I think I found Al’s Monk.” After a brief conversation filling in some of the details, he promptly emailed a link for a Craig's list ad which showed a Monk, a little worse for the wear, which (allegedly) "ran a year ago", with the owner also claiming it needed “only paint and bright work refinishing" all for a cool 1k. Pete (being a real estate guy) was all over it like “fluke on a flounder,” and immediately contacted the owner to find out more details....but the dude was as evasive as the aforementioned fish: such as when asked if the vessel could be inspected, replied “…well, I could go up this week maybe and take some pictures…” But Pete was anything if not persistent and at long last managed to get a basic location: Port Hadlock. Upon discovering this last bit, we immediately made plans to head up the peninsula the next day. And the best part? The boat’s name was Al Ray!

The next day I started work early (finishing up some orchard pruning at a clients house), and then around 2:00 we all met up, piled into the Ivan’s car, and cruised up to Pt Hadlock. On the way, Pete called the Port Commissioner to try get a sense of where this boat might actually be. A good hour passed before the return call, which curtly informed him (she was probably more than a little annoyed by the “fool’s errand”) that “…sorry, no boat of such a description resides within the harbor.” Undeterred, we continued, emboldened by our collection of downloaded photos in hand, which we hoped to use to triangulate (via the background) the Al Ray’s theoretical locale. However, when we got to the port, indeed could we not find any boat resembling it, and the local scenery didn’t match anything in the pictures. It was frustrating, to say the least. We then debated a multitude of other possibilities, including whether or not it was some sort of scam. After awhile we grew tired of this circular speculation and instead used the remaining daylight studying the background of the many photos now spread all over the hood of the car...there was something vaguely familiar about them...then Ivan declared: “Hey, doesn't this look like Mystery Bay?" After further discussion, we all agree it COULD be. So, we piled back into the car, and drove the short trip there.

Pulling into the parking lot, we grabbed the binoculars, made our way to the shoreline, and lo and behold, there was the Al Ray! It was moored just about as far out of the harbor as it could be, as if a castaway, or pariah. It was the exact same boat, that weeks before, Ivan and I had joked about "abandoning!” We could hardly believe it! We all had a celebratory smoke (then another for good measure), and while we took turns handing around the binocs, Pete overheard a ragtag group sitting at a park bench to the north of us say "…hey, they must be looking at the Al Ray.” Intrigued, we went on over, introduced ourselves, and then were largely entertained listening to over two hours of stories about the boat, local gossip, their lives....which at some point during it was revealed that the current caretaker of the boat might come down to fill us in on its condition, IF we enticed him with free cigarettes and a couple beers, which we (of course) heartily agreed to. After his timely arrival and more stories-including the revelation that he had recently “quit” as the boat’s caretaker because the owner was”crazy” (now realize, this was coming from a man with all of 9 remaining teeth, hair bound up so as to look like an upturned mop, a sun-baked and sea-worn visage that could have placed him anywhere between 55-85, wearing a hoodie sweatshirt and work-kilt)-we found out 1) the interior was intact; with most of its original hardware, 2) that the keel might be “soft,” and 3) although the deck was well-weathered, it was indeed still “serviceable.” When asked about whether the engine might run, a chuckle then ran thru the group; "…yeah, I'm sure it ran at one time…" seemed the general consensus. So with our preliminary investigation a resounding success, we headed up to Port Townsend for a celebratory meal.

Pete, now both exited and flushed with success, decided to call the owner right then and there to make arrangements to view, and possibly purchase, the boat. What followed (as Ivan and I sat passively eavesdropping at the table) was priceless, and very hard to describe fully. After the initial reintroduction (where it was announced that we had, indeed, tracked down the boat and that it was not in Hadlock like he had told us), Pete managed to say only four things I can remember (realize this was a 30 minute conversation at the very least): one was "…yes,the Internet is a very powerful tool." The next, easily 10 minutes later was "…yes, I'm sure it is overwhelming." Another comment, much later "…perhaps you should call back when you've had a chance to calm down. But just know that I'd be willing to meet you tomorrow-or even tonight-with $1200 assuming you have all the paperwork together, and then you won't have to deal with all this anymore…” After another long pause Pete finally concluded the conversation with "…Ok, fine. Call me back when you actually WANT to sell the boat.” Ivan and I were absolutely cracking up: Pete's expression throughout was priceless! Come to find out the guy was indeed a bit of a “nutter.” He lived with his dad, was a shut-in, and now (likely in part due to our interest) thought the boat was worth even more-wasn't sure HOW MUCH more exactly, but MORE nonetheless. He seemed to believe our going out to find the Al Ray was an “invasion of his privacy” somehow. Pete said it sounded to him like he was having an emotional breakdown over the event, and decided to wait him out. “Let him stew over the one that got away" was his hard-earned professional assessment.

Weeks go by. Multiple tree jobs are endeavored and completed. Late summer passes into Fall. More days go by, then one clear Autumnal evening I get a message from Pete: "…Admiral (he called me that for some obscure reason likely related to a rather obvious nickname I’ve endured since my youth), you have been recruited to assist in the relocation of the Al Ray to its new home at the Democratic Party Celebratory Beach: give me a call back for the details.” When I do, I find that an exchange of ownership had been successfully negotiated, and it had been arranged to take one of Pete's friends 30ft, dual-outboard open water Sport-fishing boat up to Mystery Bay the very next day. I needed to gather up a sea bag of tools/spares (as I generally tend to fill in as “Chief Engineer” on our adventures due to my extensive mechanical experience) to repair anything that was priority: we needed power to the bilge (we had already been informed that the hull had slow leaks), a working set of running lights, but primarily needed to focus on trying to get the engine running (if possible). In the course of gathering the necessary tools, I also packed up 5 quarts of oil, a transfer pump, sump tank, starting fluid (the powerplant was a gas powered Chrysler, flat 6,circa 1950's), copious amounts of penetrating fluid(s), “Heat” (for old gas), a spare ignition coil, spark plugs, a selection of different gauge wire and splices, duct tape, zip ties, a collection of hose clamps, and a roll of emergency hose repair tape in my sea bag. Pete informed me he would bring a compliment of boat safety items; life jackets, a throw ring, a pair of short-wave radios, as well as a gas can and fire hydrant...we were scheduled to leave the Winslow Marina dock no later than 11:30 the next morning.

So now you know the backstory.....

It took us a little while longer to get going than we had originally planned...we were first met by Al at the marina, where he launched into a series of impromptu stories until at last interrupted by our boarding of the support-boat. He then promptly decreed our “titles:” I was the “Chief Engineer,” Pete the “1st Mate,” and Pete’s friend (we shall call him Klaus) was the “Captain” (as it was his boat that we were using as support vehicle/tug). Al then drove off to prepare the beach-site, requesting that we call him once nearing the Hood Canal Bridge so that he might get some photos for documentation of the event. Newly “christened,” we finally headed out (casting off lines much nearer to 12:00), with our first destination being the Kingston fuel dock. Once our tanks and reserves were topped off, we then made the 40+ mile trip to Mystery Bay in about 2 hours. On the cruise up was when the plot started to thicken, however...curious (but also just making small talk), I asked Pete if he had checked the forecast, to which he responded "…yeah, looks like we got a pretty good window to get it done…” Taken aback, I immediately asked “…window? What kind of window?" With little to no trace of concern, Pete responded dryly “…till around 5:00, then a storm blows in. But that should give us plenty of time…” My first thought was, of course, “famous last words,” but chose instead to respond with a nod, which likely failed to relay the mounting alarm that had gripped me. What if the engine didn't fire? What if the rudder was frozen up? What if we hadn't a sufficient tow line, or a functional tow cleat, or a sea-worthy hull even? But I let such fears just settle into the bilge and didn't dredge them up: for what good would they do now, already underway to retrieve the boat? So I traveled thereafter mostly in silence, keeping a watchful eye out for loggerheads/driftwood in the channel, and running thru mental troubleshooting for a 50's era flat six.

Once we arrived at Mystery Bay and were successfully on board, I immediately hooked the battery up to the jury-rigged bilge pump (its light-gauge wires merely stripped so as to enable wrapping around a car battery’s posts) quickly assessed that the wiring harness had been compromised by extensive “tweaker” repairs/unfinished splicing (but that the primary circuit was thankfully still intact), and then set myself to the task of prepping the engine for starting. Pete asked me "… might we try crank the old beast over?" Looking up from the engine (which was a neglected mass of rust and corroded connections), I responded "No. we need to scrape all the primary contacts, flush the old oil out, and then pull loose the belts to see if she will even turn over first...give me some time and I can give you a clearer answer, but for now, lets assume the engine’s a loss..." Pete scratched his chin and thought a bit before responding “Hmmm…so should we prep her to tow then?" I immediately replied in a tone that couldn’t fail to convey annoyance “…that would be prudent considering our limited window of weather, don't you think?" He nodded his consent and immediately began manufacturing a yoke out of available materials on board. Soon, with a tow line now shared between the two watercraft, we were under way, and other than some tense moments trying to find an appropriate tow speed (and some tricky cross currents getting out of Kilisut Harbor), it appeared like it was going to be “smooth sailing” for the rest of the trip. I stayed busy on the stern for the next couple of hours working on the long neglected engine. This kept me outside of the cabin, fully exposed to the wind, chop, and the steadily gathering clouds, all while availing myself to the whim of Pete's command, who (to be fair), had to stay at the helm and maintain radio contact with Klaus. We maintained this routine until it started to rain and the wind started to pick up. After around 30 minutes of a slow but steady trend towards hypothermia, I finally gave up on the sorry excuse for an engine, supported by the realization that the alternator was completely frozen up: assuming that the prop would even turn if successfully engaged by a running engine, without a charging system to recharge the battery, it would simply drain to nothing in no time, and then we wouldn't even have enough juice left to power the bilge (which was of utmost importance, as the hull did indeed leak steadily).

It was around this time we snapped our 1st tow line. It happened out in the open Sound, in midst the rough chop where the Hood Canal empties into the Sound proper. Klaus was obviously worried about making good time (he had earlier admitted to wanting to get back early enough to watch the Seahawks game) and thus was plowing us thru the chop a bit too aggressively, which abraded the line off the anchor-post. No big deal though, we just had to shorten the lead a bit, tie it anew and continue on. Not long after this event Pete called Al as he had promised, as it was mid afternoon and we were now closing in on the Hood Canal bridge. While passing under the raised portion of the bridge deck, we were all reassured to spot Al waving frantically, taking pictures and giving us all the “thumbs up.” Afterwards, in order to help pass the rather tedious slack-time, we kept ourselves busy cleaning the cabin, setting up the bunks, the table, and generally sorting thru all the misc hardware on board for “treasure.” Then the wind picked up in earnest, and it really started to turn nasty: "Hmmm…this is coming in a bit earlier than they forecast..." Pete muttered under his breath. By that time I was trying my best to stay inside the cabin, endeavoring repairs on the compromised wiring harness, keeping an eye on the bilge, and taking the helm when Pete had to make a call. As it got rougher, however, we had to ensure that the tow line rode on the guide for the anchor line (as we are using its lash-post to tow from), which when it slipped off meant crawling into the front berth, popping up through the bow hatch, signalling for Klaus to “power down,” manually slacking and replacing the line, then signalling to “power up” again. Every time we did this, Klaus tended to “gun” it, which caused a slight delay as the line stretched, and then a violent lurch forward. Therefore, every time we had to repeat this process, it put an excessive amount of strain on the line. I soon noticed that such repeated stress had shredded the protective outer weave of the line, exposing its core. "We're gonna lose that line…" I tell Pete. "Nahhh, it'll be fine, those ropes are tough." he responded, rather optimistically. "Trust me, we're gonna lose that line sooner as opposed to later…" I assure him, both annoyed and concerned that if he could not concede that which was most apparent, right before his eyes, how many other decisions had been made from within such blindness? I started debating with myself that perhaps the whole plan had been hatched from just such a nest of willful optimism…but I shared none of this out loud: what would be the point of it now? 15 minutes later the line snapped mid length, and Pete turned to me then and said "…boy, I guess you called that one, didn't you?" I nodded and again said nothing, taking the wheel while he went out on deck to gather the frayed rope. He soon shouted through the open hatch “Is there another long-line in the bow?" Setting the rudder, I scramble thru wads of old rope until I found one that seemed sufficiently long. “…Is that it?" I showed him our meager choices, and he agreed that it, indeed was the best choice. Collecting the line from Klaus’ boat, he did his best to splice ‘em together, and ‘off we went’ again.

Now realize that even though we were inside a cabin, there was no heat source, and it was in the mid 40s at this point, WITHOUT wind chill. At the distant end of our tow line we could see Klaus inside his cabin all snug and toasty, even though he'd only dressed in Levi's, a t-shirt and thin jacket. Pete was dressed similarly, and only I seemed to have had the good sense of wearing polypro underwear, fleece and a proper rain shell: but “so far so good,” as I seemed to have been the only one who had gotten significantly wet...until Klaus ran over a gill net.

In an attempt to be fair, it was pretty choppy at this point (we were into swells approaching 5’) and it was getting dark all while raining steadily; but how exactly does one miss bright white floats spaced 2' apart laying in an uninterrupted chain across your path? I guess the answer to that query is "Klaus.” His immediate reaction was to let out a long string of curses, then followed up by shouting across the gap “WHAT DO I DO" (as he drifted, with engines still engaged and outboards trimmed down, right through the confusing mess). "Shut off the motors!" yelled back Pete. More cussing, appropriate adjustments were made at the helm, and then our illustrious Captain went back to the transom and immediately almost went overboard leaning over the rail to check the props. "Raise the outboards up!" Yelled Pete as Klaus regained his footing and composure. The next 45 (or so) minutes were spent with Klaus alternatively cussing, pulling at nets, and calling out "…I don't think I can free them, should we call the coastguard?" Pete's patient reply was: “Keep at it!” Eventually Captain Klaus cleared the last of the “fouling,” a cheer was shared among the crew, the towboat was freed, the motors started/trimmed down/ceremoniously “gunned” and we surged forward again. Although this delay was costly (and would have been so much more so if Klaus had indeed gone overboard) we were at last making headway again…that is, until we encountered another net. This time, however, we managed to just barely clear it by steering hard to port. Then we spotted another: again just clear...and another. During yet another in a series of close encounters, a chase boat scrambled from near the shore, intercepted us, and led us around what we could only assume was their net. Meanwhile the promised storm had now truly descended upon us, and Klaus's boat skills were beginning to become as frayed as the old, worn lines available to us....

From the very beginning it seemed that he had trouble concentrating upon a task. He was always fiddling with his GPS, the radio, or looking at his phone (and the reason I had chosen to play “lookout” for floating debris on the trip up: because he really didn't pay close attention to what he was doing, and so would have to make some severe bank at the last second to miss what should have simply been spotted well beforehand and piloted around) and now that he was wet, frustrated (likely cold) and under pressure to perform, he seemed to be kinda losing it. He drifted radically, was on/off the throttle, and had seemed to decide it was prudent to speed up further. With the waves at times now reaching 7' swells, that meant our much heavier (est. 14000 lbs) hull was literally punching thru oncoming waves...and there wasn't much Pete and I could do but hang on, and keep the tiller steady and true to his course. The increasing wind was now white-capping the crests, and the gloom of evening had begun to set in. “It's getting dark, perhaps we should see about getting some running lights on..." Pete murmured." I replied “Ok, but its gonna mean we go without the bilge pump. You think we'll be alright without it? So far so good, but ...?" Pete looked at me and shrugged. And so, with such consent from the 1st Mate, I set to the task of wiring the battery into the compromised harness and began to systematically troubleshoot any issues remaining: ironically, we had dash/interior lights but no running or exterior lighting. I had Pete toggle the main switches about a dozen times, while I tested and tried to reconnect anything that might make us more visible on the water. Proper contact was finally made somewhere, and “viola” we at least had an anchor light. I went back to the stern again to check, and…nothing. There was a halogen spotlight mounted to the cabin, however, so I disassembled it on the spot, cleaned it, and managed to somehow get it working as well.

No sooner had I resumed my place in cabin, than a string of cursing came over the radio from the tow craft: seems we had nearly snarled another net. Klaus turned hard to starboard, gunned it and managed to pull alongside the line before crossing over it. I went up to the bow to help direct, and could hear Klaus screaming "WHERE IS IT? WHERE IS IT? I CANT SEE IT!" I yelled back “ITS TO YOUR PORT!" Which he didn't seem to hear (obviously melting down), as he just continued to repeat this mantra to himself. Finally, pushed by the relentless waves, he rather miraculously drifted clear. I then yelled myself near hoarse in reply before he finally heard me: “YOU’RE CLEAR! BUT WE ARE DRIFTING INTO IT NOW...YOU NEED TO PULL US BACK THE WAY WE CAME FIRST!" To which he replied “ARE YOU CLEAR?" This then becoming his new mantra for awhile, as the Al Ray slowly got drawn into the tangled mess. After some frantic moments of conversation with Pete via the radio, Klaus finally received the message, engaged the outboards again, and began trolling us back the way we had come…then we heard the twin outboard RPM’s increase. "NOT NOW!" Yelled Pete, and Klaus gunned it. “K-pow!” Went the rope, and within minutes we were both adrift and net entangled."…WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING?" Yelled Pete in frustration. "I have no friggin’ idea. Losing his mind, perhaps?" I mumbled in reply as I came back in through the bow-hatch after gathering the remnants of the tow line.

I followed Pete back to the stern to help him deal with the net: it seemed to have snarled around the rudder, and perhaps something else underneath. “Get me some slack!" Pete yelled over the howling wind. I grabbed both of the trailing lines, pulled for all I was worth, and managed to get about 3-4'. We cleated one side off, then I pulled more slack, until we had around 6' worth in total, then cleated the other side. “Ok, keep it tight to the hook!" he yelled as he tried run the boat hook along the length of the line to coax it free. But it was just too tangled. It also didn’t help we were being hammered by wind and wave: for, in the amount of time it has taken for us to get slack in the net-line, we had gone broadside to the storm, were wallowing in the trough and rocking dangerously from each impact. When I say that the top rail of the boat was a mere foot from the swell that might overwhelm it, I would not be exaggerating. It was only the sheer mass of the vessel keeping us afloat: "ballasted” as it were. Meanwhile, Klaus's boat, a modern lightweight fiberglass open water fishing boat bobbed crazily atop the crests so severely that it was hard for him to keep it under control (in one memorable instance earlier, when maneuvering to reset the tow line, while the Al Ray rolled lazily in the break, Klaus’ stern suddenly launched -quite literally- 20’ out of a trough and struck us, cracking his outboards cover…the wave action had gotten much worse since then), but at least he was riding high out of the water. From our place at the stern, the waves steadily building with the wind, all while struggling to free the lines, there were times when the tilt axis of the boat -the imaginary line drawn from port thru starboard- was very near to (if not exceeding) 45 degrees. Consequently, it was hard enough to accomplish anything more than simply holding on. Frustrated by these conditions Pete soon gave up on the hook, handed it to me, and in desperation tried to guide his foot along the length of the line, hoping this would be more successful somehow...pretty soon he was plunging in up to his chest, but with all the barnacles biting into the line, the numerous protrusions of the rudder assembly and the effect of the chop, I had begun to seriously doubt he was accomplishing anything more than getting soaking wet. At this point I started looking for alternatives; anything that might grant us a possible solution, when I finally noticed that there appeared to be no net actually attached to the line we are hung up on. There was the float line, but nothing below... “PETE- HOLD UP! I don't think there's a net attached!" He looked up at me, up to his waist in frigid water, jaw clenched, hands desperately clutching the bucking rail. “WHAT?" I leaned close to his ear “Let me pull it in a ways-I think this is just a drifting line!" So, I did, and sure enough, it was just a rope with floaters and the barest remnants of what used to be a net attached. "FIND ME A KNIFE…" he growled, and in one slice the deed was done. One end slunk off into the darkness, the other end (which had fouled the rudder) he then handed to me: "Run this line around the bow and cast it off!" he commanded, as I helped him back on board. So yet again I did the tentative dance along the outside rail, teasing the line with me until I reached the bow…and then hesitated: "YOU SURE YOU WANT ME TO CAST IT OFF...?" I yelled astern, considering (somewhat illogically) all the hassle it has caused us and not wanting to cause the same to others..."YES!" So I let it go at last.

I opened the bow hatch to go inside and reconvene with Pete...and then hesitated again. I looked around, noticing for the first time that it had become completely dark...and, other than the distant liquid amber lights of the sub-base and an occasional house light, there was nothing around us, anywhere. We were a lone, hulking piece of glorified driftwood with two meager lights in the middle of a large body of agitated water and Captain Klaus (in his absolutely critical support boat) was nowhere to be seen. "Where's Klaus? Do you see him?" Pete asked once I was back in through the bow hatch. “Nope! Looks like he's gone." I responded. “What do you mean, GONE?" Pete returned, flabbergasted. “Look for yourself. He's gone...maybe he just drifted while trying to fix the yoke, or maybe he went for the Coast Guard; at this point your guess is as good as mine…" So we stood there awhile in silent vigil, trying discern which distant lights might be his from the general background noise of light, all while trying to maintain our footing in the tossing, gloomy cabin. Finally far to the NE I spotted his distinctive red/green running lights. "There! There he is!" I declared with relief as I pointed out the distant but welcome beacon. Pete, having the only ‘real’ flashlight (a 4d cell Mag-light: I generally carry a 2 AAA cell headlamp in my tool bag) signaled patiently until he was assured we were indeed spotted and on our Captain’s current course, while I went to the bow to tend to the towline again. Eventually Klaus pulled up alongside, asking the now-expected question: “Are you clear?"

By this time it should be apparent that things had gotten a bit tense. We were wet, cold, hungry, Klaus’ boat had already taken a direct hit, we sailed into the very maw of a storm, it had now become completely dark, and we still had a long way yet to go. At that stage of the adventure I'd lost all accounting of time: It was simply now, and now simply sucked! "Toss us a line!" Pete called over, and I then traded him places at the bow/helm, mainly so that I didn’t have to bear any of the responsibility of retying the tow line (an attempt perhaps, to lessen the chance of being a future receptor for the steadily building frustration: I was the “Chief Engineer” after all, and that simply wasn't in my “contract”). At least another 20 minutes passed while trying to get a line between the boats, made all the more difficult by Klaus’ unwillingness to approach any closer than 25' (due to the swell) but even with this ‘cushion’ I soon had to scramble out on deck in order to help fend him off as both momentum and wave action bore him into us. Now realize a boat hook (the usual tool for keeping errant boats at bay) was next to useless in that extreme of situation, so to “fend off,” one had to do it with hands or feet, while upon a heaving bow deck that had no rail (there were hand rails upon the cabin’s outside margin, but after Pete snapped one of these off during the last net encounter, we had learned to use these only tentatively)...so there we were, dangling our feet over the edge of a tossing, wet deck, with nothing to hang onto, trying to catch a flung line while the Captain barked at us to defend his boat from damage, in midst a persistent blinding deluge. While engaged in this most dangerous game, it occurred to me that the two watercraft were Yin/Yang, a study in opposites: his boat ran, ours did not. His boat was exemplary of modern lightweight design, Al Ray of a by-gone era. His wanted to perch high atop the crests, while we hunkered into every lull. Seen in this light, it was both a fascinating and foreseeable situation that we now found ourselves in. However, in spite of such contradiction, we eventually managed to succeed at the task somehow: tow line once again secured, extra line cautiously played out, reoriented into the wind again, another delayed surge forward and we motored on.

It was around this time (approaching 8:00), that I began making personal restitution to the Sea Gods, offering penance for any indiscretion we might have committed; especially after I noticed, while sighting off of the shore lights, that WE DID NOT APPEAR TO BE MOVING. I assured the “Powers That Be” that even though our actions might not be deemed as such, our intentions were pure, and we merely wanted to keep our word and honor (not to mention our hides) intact. And as if to imply my most humble prayer went wholly unheard and/or was rejected, the wind continued to blow. Worse yet, it continued to intensify: it now whistled and shrieked about the cabin, not unlike a scene from "A Perfect Storm.” The waves no longer merely rolled heavily by, but now crested and crashed into us, breaking straight over the bow. Klaus’ boat seemed to be leaping off each crest, thus plowing us into its break: the rope would slack, he would launch off the crest, the rope would stretch taut, and the Al Ray would surge forward pounding into the face then wallow dangerously as the rope went slack again. Again and again, the hours drug by to the cadence of this beat. It was mesmerizing. Soon Pete and I no longer bothered trying to have a conversation within the growing din, we just rolled with the tossing deck. I no longer even cared about the tow line, slowly sawing itself upon the anchor-guide. Occasionally I would snap out of the daze, and check the bilge, mainly to see if it was noticeably different (it most certainly was, you could now hear the increasing bilge water sloshing under the floor decking); its not like we could realistically have done anything about it anyway, we needed the lights or Klaus couldn't see us. As it was, if we had broken loose he probably couldn't even have gotten to us until after we were far adrift, and with the worsening of conditions (assuming going broadsides again didn’t immediately swamp us), we probably couldn't have re-rigged anyway. So I continued to mumble prayers and made my peace in silence, Pete white-knuckled the wheel while occasionally questioning our heading to no one in particular, and ever so slowly, the lights that were our destination crept toward us.

At a maddeningly slow pace, the liquid amber bank of lights that was Bangor passed off our port side. We had found ourselves in a kind of illuminated blindspot: in an area where the glare of the base overwhelmed one’s night vision. That, combined with the torrential rain and spray, made it seem as if we were now passing into an abyss...like a descent into the underworld. Pete pointed to a passing landmark: a sign designating the bases border... "We're almost there. The community is just south of here…" he mumbled as if to himself. “Finally!" I thought to myself dreamily, “We will be able get off this floating cell!" We eventually pulled in towards shore, crept at a snail’s pace past the dark silhouettes of worn pilings, and into the partial shelter of the shoreline at last, where both the wind and wave action lessened considerably. Pete was soaking wet from his attempt to free the net line, and once within this lull I asked him if he was cold (already knowing the answer); "Starting to be…" he responded rather stoically, then continued, "…we're getting close now. We need to repair the boathook (its actual ‘hook’ had broken off trying to haul in the thrown tow line the last time around), and we need to select some decent moorage ropes...what we got?" So, once again I went into the bow-berth to assess our motley collection, picking out two that seemed ‘best.’ Then, I fixed the hook by forcing a ‘treasure’ lag hook into the end plug, bending it so as to be larger than the rope’s outer diameter. We were about as ready as we were ever going to be at this point.

As we steadily drew closer in to the shore, one could only barely discern the shoreline by where the waters reflection ended (otherwise, it was simply shades of black). After some discussion, it was decided it would have to be “all hands on deck” in order to have a chance to spot a mooring buoy, be able to hook it, and then tie off. After one last check of the bilge, and setting of the tiller, we both went up through the bow hatch, eager to see the quest fulfilled at last. Up ahead in the tow boat, Klaus turned on his spot lamp, set a course, and idled us in. In the meantime there was continuous hoarse shouting between the boats regarding exactly how to set up an approach and where the buoys might actually be...then we spotted one, and then another. There were roughly a half-dozen visible, anchored parallel to shore, about 35-40' apart. Pete requested us to be placed upwind and broadside so that we could work the ‘leeward’ side to tie up. Captain Klaus didn't seem to understand this concept, and pulled us up so that the target was on his starboard within easy view of his helm (which was somewhat understandable, except he seemed to forget that it was US, and not HE, who actually needed to tie up) and this course set us up with the buoys to our windward side instead. After a couple of meandering circles by the tow boat (we mostly just pivoted in place) we were finally able to realign for another attempt. It was around this time that Al showed up (no doubt hearing our hoarse shouting back and forth), paddling out to us in his 12' rowboat. He seemed to think he might actually help, somehow, but in actuality was just making himself a hazard. Frustrated, Pete yelled "Al! Get the hell out of here! You can't help us at all! You can only get in the way!" I kinda felt sorry for Al then, as he was genuinely exited, and just wanted to be involved in the grand adventure somehow. But Pete was right: at that point with the wind, waves, sketchy piloting, and our ragged nerves, he was just as likely to get hurt, or worse. Hearing the edge in Pete’s voice, he took the hint, and meekly pulled back ashore.

Klaus swung us by the target buoy, but the wind and current carried us far wide. Again we passed by, and again were pulled far adrift. "Bring us in up current, so that we might drift into it!" Yelled Pete, then turned and said to me, "Hey, pull the tow line in would ya?" So I started to, but then Klaus “gunned it”, and I had to let it loose. Pete angrily mumbled something incoherent, and then I realized he had actually wanted me to merely shorten the lead. "Oh, I get it…why didn't you just say that?" I wearily mumbled back. So when we got another chance (after another failure) and jockeyed to come by for another pass, I tried to untie it from the anchor post...but in his earlier haste Pete had lashed it in a big snarly mess, and I could not get it free. "Just cut it" he yelled, but I just returned him a blank stare in reply, as there was realistically nothing to cut except the lead itself (and I couldn’t fathom how that might help in the slightest)…and then suddenly Klaus gunned the outboards, and I had to quickly release the line again (almost losing some fingers in the process). Seeing this, Pete redirected: “Forget the line! Help me snag this buoy!" So we got ourselves positioned for yet another attempt, both taking turns vainly trying to hook the eyelet while it was within reach, but it once again defiantly drifted away. Beyond frustration now, I dropped thru the hatch, and stumbled through the dark cabin (Pete was now wearing my headlamp) to the stern. Thru the ambient light, I could discern it’s silhouette: "Throw me the hook! I can see it!" But even though it was still within reach, I just couldn't manage to snag it: barnacles had grown over the loop, and I couldn't get purchase. I heard Pete yell "…let's try another one! This ones screwed!" So, again we relocated up current; although this time, I stayed in the stern, in case we drifted past again.

Meanwhile, a steady stream of cursing could be heard coming from the tow-craft, where Captain Klaus couldn’t seem to keep his boat on course. “It won't turn right!" He kept yelling. I wondered at this point whether our wheel might have turned full-lock to port, but hadn't the time to check it: Pete had finally managed to snag an eyelet. "I need you up here!" So again I ran blindly thru the cabin, tossed by the rolling deck and barely keeping from tripping on the haphazard floorboards we had pulled up to expose the bilge proper. “Can you pull it up? I've got to tie us off!" So I reefed for all I was worth upon the hook, just managing to raise the buoy up within his reach, he deftly double-looped the moorage line through its eye, whereupon I released it from the hook (thankful that my haphazard “boathook fix” held). I then painstakingly removed the snarled tow line, so that we could finally use the anchor post for its true purpose. At long last, and in spite of everything, it seemed we had finally accomplished our goal. Pete and I shook hands, relieved to be finished. “Well, that was certainly epic!" I joked, and we shared a laugh. In our elation, we no longer felt the wind, nor the rain: we had made it! Now, in short order, we would be back on board a warm vessel, and soon enough would be back at our port of call, back on solid ground. We watched as Klaus pulled in the tow line yoke, sharing the fatigue in his voice as he chatted with Al on the shoreline. Then I noticed Pete turn downwind and look intently at something for a few minutes, his brows furrowing. I turned then and looked as well, quickly noticing what it was that had grabbed his attention: the pilings were getting closer. "Hey does it look like we are drifting?" I offered, voicing what had already become obvious. “Yeah, I noticed that. I was hoping that I was wrong."

Sure enough, we were slowly moving closer to the menacing shapes that outlined the remains of an old dock. Pete grumbled to himself, then yelled once again to Klaus "Hey! Come back! We need you!" No reply..."Hey! We need you! What are you doing?" Still nothing. Pete whistled. "What now?" A weary voice answered in the wind. "We need you! We are drifting! The buoy is dragging!" A long stream of cursing came from the distant boat. “Could we drop the anchor as well? Might that slow the drift?" I offered. “I can't guarantee it. There might be no chance for it to dig in before we are into the pilings…" was the reply. Meanwhile, it seemed like Klaus was excruciatingly slow to respond considering our predicament (he was likely just setting up the rag-tag tow line again). Then I had a thought: I had seen the another buoy not far from our current moorage. With the drift, we might have come close enough to actually reach it. I inform Pete of my intentions, and then hustled my way to the stern. Once there, I searched the water around us desperately, unable to spot anything resembling a buoy in the chop (but grateful that the rain had also now begun to die down). Then I heard a scraping sound to the port side: very close. I went over to the rail, and there was the buoy, right against the hull! Without thinking, I reached down and grabbed it, not wanting to miss the opportunity that had availed itself. But now I was stretched over the side with my legs locked into the gunnels, my hand hooked to the float with no rope to tie off with, all while trying to halt the slow drift of a 7 ton waterlogged wooden boat. “Pete! Pete! Bring a line!" I yelled. “You find the buoy?" he called back. “I'M HANGING ONTO IT! Hurry! I need a moor line!" Eventually (seemingly an eternity as my arms and back burned from the strain), he made his way to me with the other line. “Can you tie it off?" he asked, blocked by my body from even seeing the target. “Yeah, I'll just loop it thru after you cleat it off…here, grab the end..." And viola, with the other end tied off to the stern, we had our second anchor point.

We waited there a few anxious minutes to make sure that we were indeed secure. Satisfied, we then started gathering our gear for exodus, not wanting to tempt fate any longer by lingering on board anymore than we had to. I pulled the battery from the harness, re-rigged it to the bilge, then packed up my tools, while Pete gathered the boating supplies he had brought. Klaus returned with a master plan to pull up on the starboard side, tie up, load the gear, etc. I turned to Pete "…couldn't we just latch and leap?" He shrugged “Hey, whatever works.” So, after two aborted attempts to get close enough broadside (from our windward side), our captain finally took Pete's advice to approach on the much calmer leeward side, and while the Klaus prepared to toss us a line to tie up with, we just unceremoniously jumped on board the support boat. We stowed the gear, had a moment of congratulations and sharing of comradery, and then turned tail for home. With the wind to our backs and no burdensome waterlogged boat in tow, we made the previous 4 hour leg in about 20 minutes. We passed under the Hood Canal Bridge, (noticing with interest some large barges moored leeward off Port Gamble) turned the bend around Foul Weather Bluff, and ran smack headlong into the storm again.

At first it was merely choppy, and so Captain Klaus just throttled back a bit. Even so, we still “pancaked” off a crest now and then: but the storm gods were not done with us quite yet. The winds picked even more, and the swells grew even larger. His teeth now chattering, Pete went into the forward berth to change out of his wet clothes, and try to warm himself. Klaus opened up the windscreen hatch, because we couldn't see from all the spray, and the meager single wiper simply couldn’t keep pace with it all. Waves started breaking over the bow into the cabin, the wind moaned and howled around us, and the hull rolled and pitched violently. Klaus went back to his nervous fidgeting again, messing with his GPS compulsively as if it could some how bring about a miracle...maybe he believed it was the technological equivalent of a djinn in a bottle? All I knew was that while he fiddled with it, he would veer off course and we would start quickly coursing broadside. Eventually Pete seemed to notice something was amiss, because he rose from the bunk (having changed into a pair of dry sweatpants he had “abandoned” somewhere below), and resumed his place at the "1st Mate station" beside the helm (I had remained standing through out...wave action on the hull irritates my pre-conditioned back if I'm sitting, so I took my previous “Engineering station” straddling the aisle). Conditions continued getting worse. The swells at this point seemed to be exceeding 10’ although it was honestly hard to tell exactly. They were spaced so close together that we seemed to skip from crest to mid-face (unless foundering broadside during attempts at djinn summoning), but they were most assuredly big: easily eye level or above in places, while standing flat footed on the tossing deck of a boat which could not accelerate against them enough to get up on ‘plane.’ At some point we were passed by a couple of deep sea fishing trawlers (or crab boats-hard to tell in the darkness), both of whom radioed to us that there was a “Small Craft Advisory in effect,” which at this point we had pretty much figured out already. I use the word passed, because once again, we didn't seem to be making any headway...during brief glimpses upon the constantly cycling GPS map, I kept noticing a reference point of Eglon, and it didn't seem to be moving (or, more accurately, we weren't moving much past it). We crashed over, into, and upon the swells, changing course periodically to try make some headway into the wind. Spray splashed thru the soft canopy, and eventually Klaus closed the windshield hatch and sat down, seemingly resolved to defeat. You couldn't really see anything directly in front of us at that point, anyway.

A long, dreadful silence reigned. Finally Pete spoke up. "How much fuel do we have?" Klaus, woken from his brooding responded, “Enough, I think. Why?" Pete responded “Why don't we just try to make it to Kingston? I'll pay for the taxi-we'll just tie it up to the fuel dock or something...it's an emergency, they won't care." Klaus was silent for a few minutes. “Ehhh, I think we can make it...it's not that far now..." And so Pete dropped the subject, reverting back to white-knuckling the armrests and nervously offering course corrections. Time passed, and eventually I could finally discern the barest of progress via the turn-style GPS. After an indeterminable length of time, Klaus pointed off into the dark, asking "Is that the Kingston ferry?" Pete responded rather curtly " Yep." It was about 40 degrees off our port side; a slow moving (no doubt having a hard time of it too) rack of lights crossing the channel from East to West many miles distant…as if showing us the way. Appearing to finally realize our location, Klaus continued after a lengthy pause: “…you said you'd pay for the taxi?" “Yep" answered Pete. Another lengthy pause. “Well, lets just go to Kingston then." This news was certainly of great relief (I know Pete and I heaved a collective sigh), but we still had to somehow GET there, as the conditions hadn't seem to be improving much. If anything, it seemed to dependably remain nasty with occasional descents into downright hellish. I had never thought the Salish Sea got that rough. I guess I had previously always assumed that it would be somewhat sheltered; but with the wave cadence we encountered being so brisk, and the presumed wave height cresting as it was, I began to hypothesize that perhaps such “shelter” served instead to funnel wind and wave within the channel, similar to how waves crested into a shoreline. I debated the mechanics with myself to pass the time; it was kind of a morbid train of thought, filled with speculation regarding early seafarers, indigenous natives and how many of them likely died caught upon open water in the "convergence zone.” This line of reasoning was inspired (at least in part) by an ironic moment just before we saw the ferry, when one could momentarily see clear sky and stars above...then the clouds whipped back into place, and the winds began to howl around us again. It reminded me of a scene from the movie " A Perfect Storm;” when the Andrea Gail makes it to the eye of the storm, and a glimmer of light shines upon them all (only to have the storm draw them in again), and Clooney whispers “…she's not going to let us go.” I whispered that to myself at that very moment as well, and made my peace with the storm gods then, too.

After Klaus made the decision to "give in" (for it seemed his resistance was totally based upon pride, not reason) he fiddled some more with his GPS, then set the tiller “steady as the crow flies” towards Kingston Harbor (AKA Apple Tree Cove)...the problem with this approach was that it meant we were no longer heading straight into the storm, but rather, cutting across it: the boat started to wallow alarmingly, with Klaus just kind of staring glassy-eyed forward. When it would get a bit too alarming, he seemingly found some new reason to fiddle with his GPS again. I decided it was an autonomic response somehow: that it gave him a sense of security. Unfortunately for the rest of us, we were then conditioned to feel insecure, because it always seemed to result in alarming consequences. As we defiantly cut across the storms path, I couldn't help but wonder why we didn't just continue into the wind until way south of the turn, then whip around and cruise into the harbor with the wind at our backs, instead of a course straight toward it; blindly following the fair weather route the computer plotted for us. Pete seemed to be thinking the same thing, because when we finally reached the relative shelter of the cove, and the boat sat at idle while Captain Klaus tried to plot a course into the docks (yes,into the marina!) Pete finally snapped: "Stop looking at that damn screen, and just look where you’re going! It's not going to pilot the boat for you!"

Finally we got to an empty slip. We moored the boat, stowed the gear, grabbed personal effects, and called a taxi. Our feet first touched the blissfully still dock at 1:30...we had been on the water for nearly 14 hours. By the time I got back to the house, it was 2:30 (ish). I quickly showered and hit the cot, utterly exhausted. Ivan was attending to other pressing business at the time, so he initially heard through the grapevine about our grand misadventure. In the following weeks one grandiose plan after another was devised by Al Ray and his ilk with the intention of dragging the old Monk ashore, all of which involved varying combinations of tides, cranes, trailers/sleds, winches, pulleys and even divers…after being first raised up off the bottom, that is: the boat sank days after the tow when the battery (which had most graciously given us such loyal service against all odds) finally failed. At the next low-enough tide the Al Ray was pumped out, the hull patched, and was then floated (at the next high-enough tide) into a type of makeshift cradle, where the salty wood boat was indeed eventually dragged into its final place of rest. I was always invited to be involved in these latter deployments of the mission, and was actively consulted on various ways and means of doing such. However, although still intrigued by the grand scheme, I can't say I was particularly motivated to risk both life and limb further to see the dreams ultimate fruition (I already did that enough in my occupation climbing/pruning trees, and those risks I could mitigate by only involving people I both knew and trusted in such situations). Perhaps ultimately I was simply banking on Pete’s assurances after asking me if I wanted to help with winching the boat to shore, and I had refused:

"…well, don't worry, Admiral, you've already earned your commission…for life."

So now you know the epic story of the "The Towing of Boats: the Last Voyage of the Al Ray." Every recollection is as true as the initial account made in the weeks that followed it: this retelling was transcribed from the original Email that was sent to a friend not even a month after the events themselves transpired. Since this first telling, 1st Mate Pete is no longer with us: he cast off his lines to pursue undisclosed adventure on a voyage that took him far from this world.

…keep your course true, and that tiller steady, my friends.

Kirk Torren Smith

Real Tales and Tall Stories

A collection of first-person accounts that chronicle life changing and/or noteworthy events that helped influence the development of each author's unique identity.

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