PINEAWEIGH 2020 REPORT
October 2020
For those who have followed PineAweigh over the years and watched her carry us to Canadian islands and sounds, along massive straits, through swift rapids, into British Colombia’s False Narrows where water is so shallow that waltzing reed grasses tickle her keel, where flat, red rocks sing a “Come to me” siren’s song, but safe passage grants both boat and those aboard a breath-biting binge of joy; onto private island docks (thank you Canadian friends), snugging to crowded town docks with inches to spare, or fighting against a wild, laughing-its-head-off wind, as PineAweigh bucks and battles. Those who know her, know that for twenty-three years she has been our faithful partner in far-flung adventures.
In this year of Pandemic, PineAweigh has borne the humiliation of being refused entry to the land whose waters she most love—Canada. She snubbed her nose at being squeezed into a field of boats in the San Juan Islands, crowded they were, like cattle being shoved from stockyards to slaughter. She sniffed at the imposition of having her dingy winch in a repair shop, so no anchoring, no dingy use—no problem.
And so, in 2020, PineAweigh settled for sprints rather than distance running. Since June, she has spent hours meandering no further North than Kingston, no further east than Lake Washington, no further south than Anderson Island and Nisqually Delta, no further west than Harstine Island. She has rested against a Bainbridge public dock, in a harbor named Gig, Blake’s state park dock, a cove called Jarrell, and a bay named Oro.
And, oh yes. Lo, after all these years, for the first time ever, PineAweigh made a dark night cruise. She rescued the occupants of a two-person kayak, towed the craft, and carried its grateful fly-bridge-blanket-bundled occupants from an island to a peninsula shore. She used her spotlight. She quietly crept through black water, under a black sky, yet found the blinking green channel light to lead her safely back to her slip. But that’s a story for another time.
She is resting now, waiting with us for a few Fall days when temperatures rise, and rain subsides; when tides and currents call for a quick cruise. Then, respecting weather, and reluctantly resigned to the end of a season, we will take her to her winter berth, and tuck her in.
