Skirts of cedar and fir trail to the water s edge and at low tide look as though they have been precisely trimmed by a master gardener. Thick thatches of huckleberry, salal and ocean spray hug the rock walls in a tangled embrace. As we head ever north and east, we see fewer boats and even fewer people. By day we nudge the noses of our kayaks into intimate passages that snake around the islands and by late afternoon meet up with the Columbia for hot showers, a glass of Bill s homemade wine and splendid meals cooked up in the small but efficient galley. Nights are cosy in the glow of the saloon lamps as we sit around the table, steaming mugs of tea, coffee or hot chocolate in hand.
Conversation is never dull.
With each passing day a comfortable bond settles like a warm blanket upon the group. We have two days of rain where thick layers of grey stretch across the westcoast canvas. Inside the Columbia it s warm and dry as we power up to our next destination a good time to curl up on the sofa and browse through the library s books and magazines. From the window I wince at the sight of wet campsites where kayakers are either cocooned in damp tents or huddled under tarps sipping hot drinks to keep warm. But worse off than the bedraggled kayakers is Sparky, an Australian cattle dog that fell off an American power boat and was left for lost in Kenneth Passage.