Sunday Harbour

Next morning we headed south. Great heavy clouds hung low and white, covering the still-​sleeping hills and mountains like a downy comforter. Up we rose on the long swell, and then the smooth hurried slide as it urged us on our way. Peter had the wheel and was managing nicely. Jan and I pulled out the chart and the well worn Coast Pilot to look for shelter—in case of need, in view of the probable wind.

“What day is it?” asked Jan, looking up from the chart.

Sunday, we finally decided, after much thought and calculation—days get lost or found so easily when you have been playing with years and centuries in old Indian villages.

“Well, here’s a Sunday Harbour all ready for us!” I looked over her shoulder—a little ring of islands on the fringe of Queen Charlotte Sound. But sure enough, Sunday Harbour was marked with an anchor as shelter and holding ground. I opened the Pilot book to look it up . . . British Columbia Coast Waters . . . Queen Charlotte Sound . . . Fog Island . . . Dusky Cove. Ah! Sunday Harbour. Pilot book says, “Small but sheltered anchorage on south side of Crib Island. Affords refuge for small boats.” I didn’t altogether like that word “refuge,” it sounded like a last extremity. Still, the name was alluring. So, if we need it, Sunday Harbour let it be.

The nine o’clock wind was now flicking at our heels. The mountains had tossed off their comforters and were sticking up their heads to look about them. It does not take much wind, on top of the swell, to make a nasty sea in the sound. I relieved the mate at the wheel—for it depends on the balance on top of a crest whether you make the long slide down the other side safely or not.

Framework of a former longhouse at Gwayasdums on Gilford Island with fluted roof beams and house posts carved to represent the raven or possibly the mythical hok-hok.

“I don’t quite like the mightn’ts!” said John anxiously.

“What mightn’ts?” I asked, as I spun the wheel.

“The mightn’ts be able to swim,” said John, eyeing the rough waters that curled at our stern.

But even as we were all about to admit that it was much too rough for our liking, we were out of it—for Sunday Harbour opened its arms and we were received into its quiet sabbatical calm. It was low, low tide—which means in this region a drop of twenty-​five feet. Islands, rocks and reefs towered above our quiet lagoon; and only in the tall trees, way up, did the wind sing of the rising storm outside.

Low, low tide—primeval ooze, where all life had its beginning. Usually it is hidden with four or five feet of covering water; but at low, low tide it is all exposed and lies naked and defenseless at your feet. Pale-​green sea-​anemones, looking like exotic asters, opened soft lips and gratefully engulfed our offerings of mussel meat. Then shameful to say, we fed them on stones, which they promptly spat out. We thought uncomfortably of Mrs. Be-​done-​by-​as-​you-​did, and wandered on in search of abalones on their pale-​pink mottled rocks.

Then, blessing of blessings, out came the sun! Sun, whom we hadn’t seen for days and days, soothing us, healing us, blessing us. Sunday Harbour? Yes—but it was named for quiet Christian principles and little white churches; and we were worshipping the old god of the day because he shone on us. Sun, O Sun . . . We slipped off our clothes and joined the sea-​beasts in “the ooze of their pasture grounds.”

“Sand-​strewn caverns, cool and deep, where the winds are all asleep; where the spent lights quiver and gleam; where the saltweed sways in the stream . . .” I came up to breathe—Jan and Peter were having a floating competition, Jan was sending up tall spouts of water from her mouth, and the sun was shining on their upturned faces. I looked around for John . . . there he was doing a dead man’s float all by himself—face downwards, only his small behind gleaming on the surface.

Somehow, I mistrusted that word “refuge” from the beginning—it was too suggestive of other things, such as trouble or shipwreck. And then one always forgets that Pilot books, even if they say small vessels, probably mean cruisers as opposed to battleships. All day the place was perfect. We might have been in a land-​locked lake, miles and miles from the sea. But as daylight faded, the tide rose. And by and by it rose some more—and gone was our quiet lagoon. We could see the wild ocean over the tops of our island, and the waves drove through gaps that we had not even suspected. The wind, which all day had kept to the tree tops, now swooped and tore at our refuge like a wild frenzied thing . . . And by and by it rose some more—and the gusts of wind swept our little boat in wide dizzying semi-​circles—first one way and then the other. I let out more and more rope, but our anchor started to drag . . . and it dragged, and the wind blew, and the tide rose; and finally we were blown out of Sunday Harbour, and backwards into Monday Harbour.

Monday Harbour was another misnomer—a battleship might have held its own, but not a little boat with an uneasy name. I hesitated about staying, then put out two anchors—for the moon was glorious, full and bright; and it swung high, swung low, in the swaying branches. But the wind was making a night of it too. Sleep was impossible with a boat on the prowl; and beauty is only relative. So somewhere in those cold lost hours of a new day I damned the gods of Sun and Moon that led poor sailors from the narrow way, started up my engine and went and found a cove all of my own. Ignored by charts, unsung by Coast Pilot, it was calm, it was quiet, it was unnamed. I dropped the anchor . . . and went to sleep.

Morning revealed a white-​shell beach in Tuesday Cove. My crew, who had kept no tryst with strange gods in the night, were already swimming when I awoke—their little naked, brown bodies glistening against the shimmering white shell. They are used to waking up in strange coves and accept it without much comment.

“But how did we ever get to this nice place?” I heard John ask.

“We just came, silly!” said Peter. “In the night.” His face went under and his feet churned the water to foam.