IF YOU GET LOST AT SEA, "FOLLOW THAT SHIP"

On our return trip out of Lituya Bay (see last month's article, Don't Get Lost Without a Good Anchor Chain), we sailed our lumbering ferro-cement sailboat out from the mainland far enough to avoid any weather problems and then turned south towards Sitka.

As we left the snow-capped Fairweather mountains glistened briefly in the sunlight, and then disappeared as we entered one of the Gulf of Alaska's frequent
squalls. As we were well off the coast it was of little concern to us that our compass was swinging gently between SSE and SSW (that's South by South East and South by South West for you landlubbers) since there was no need to follow an accurate course.

Further, as a lack of radio signals confirmed, we were well out of the shipping channels - and in fact we were out of communication with the world except for our old fashioned LORAN navigational aid.

Shortly after it cleared up again, and suddenly the whole surface of the ocean was alive with jumping porpoises - literally everywhere you looked porpoises were
jumping, apparently feeding on something in the area.

A little later, as Dave and I were sitting in the cockpit, we heard a noise behind us. It sounded just like the sound of gray whales we had seen blowing in Glacier
Bay - but much closer. As we turned around, we were amazed to see a huge gray whale rapidly overtaking our boat from the stern. And it was as large as our boat!

My first thought was one of terror, for we had just redone the bottom of the boat in
Wrangell a few weeks earlier, and I knew how fragile our rudder was, and that if that whale even accidently touched our rudder we would be without steering
control.

Luckily for us, this whale was apparently just curious about us. We were about the same size, and were plowing slowly ahead under full sail with no engine noise to
scare it away.

As it turned out, as it approached us it veered slightly to its left and passed right along side our port gunnel. As I looked over the edge, I saw this monster eye, as big as a baseball, staring back at me.

And then it was gone, but it wasn,t, for the next fifteen minutes of so it and a companion whale swam lazily around, just doing a friendly surveying job on us, I guess.

Soon thereafter, we became host to a small bird, which must have been blown out to sea by the squall, and perched itself on our boom for the ride back to shore for the next several hours.

As it was getting dark, Dave inquired as to whether we should stand out to sea for the night, or opt for entering into Salisbury Sound, where we could anchor for the night and then enter Sitka from the back way the following morning. I suggested the latter, so we turned toward shore in a SSE direction.

Shortly after that a deep fog with a light drizzle set in, and as we approached the shore the usual ground swells started building up as the water depth started to
decrease.

That,s when it happened to us, for with the swells our lumbering boat started swinging from side to side, causing the compass to do its swinging thing again. As
a result, the only way to maintain a course was to try for an average "middle of the
swing reading.

At the same time, the light mist started causing my eyeglasses to fog over, and I am blind without them as far as reading that *.!.*#* compass. In addition, Dave
was having a difficult time getting any location readings off of the LORAN, other than noting that we were rapidly approaching the shore.

Just about then, we both sighted a dim light just ahead of us, and Dave
called out from his dry spot in the cabin "I can't figure out where we are. Just follow that ship dead ahead of us and it will lead us into the harbor area."

And so I did. Yes, sir. I followed my skippers orders faithfully, for a good half hour or so, until suddently I saw the rocks that this uncharted light was sitting
on. You never saw anyone throw the rudder over harder than I did at that monment, turning the boat in a 180 degree turn - with total disregard to both the compass and my skipper.

Shortly after, Dave confirmed we were again back in mid-channel, the waves calmed down enough to let our compass become more readable, and we proceeded to our anchorage for the nigtht.

But, never again will I "just follow the light on that ship".

Gene Dyer brings more natural (and unnatural) observations to future issues of Get Lost Magazine.