OUTSIDE THE OFFICE: My Boating Life

Jim Dietz, MD

Bond Sound was cut into the rugged coast of British Columbia by a glacier at the end of the last ice age. Last summer, Paige and I were anchored in a safe cove far within this 40-mile-long fjord. We had read that the Ahta River, at the head of the sound, winds through old-growth forests, and that grizzly bears live along its banks.

We arrived on a misty September afternoon, launched our motorized dinghy, and prepared to explore the river. The first challenge was to find the actual river mouth, which we knew was emptying somewhere among the tidal flats and clumps of trees that we saw further up the sound. Our charts hinted as to where the river lay, but there was not enough detail to tell us how to access it.

Although the water in most of the sound is about 800 feet deep, we waited for the tide to rise in order to cross the shallows. After about an hour of exploration, we discovered the river mouth. We then dinghied back to Thunder Road, our 37-foot Nordic Tug flybridge trawler, and prepared an early dinner. We planned to spend the evening venturing up the river, knowing that we had hours of summer sunlight left in this northern latitude.

We were six weeks into our planned nine-week cruise and were as far away from civilization as we had ever been. We had seen many species of wildlife, but had not yet crossed a grizzly bear off our “must see” list. This was our chance, justifying our long passage to this beautiful yet eerie spot.  

My fascination with boats and traveling by sea began when my college buddy Jon, who had grown up in a New England boating family, purchased a wooden Sparkman Stephens 36-foot sloop in need of repair and invited me to help. I had no previous experience repairing boats and could offer only my hard work and enthusiasm. I became Jon’s grunt for the rehabilitation and then maintenance of Crystal Flute, and his deck hand when we sailed her on the Chesapeake Bay.  

I sailed with Jon through most of my med school years and then moved to Sacramento for residency. While an intern, I did a silly thing: I bought a Cal 20 20-foot sailboat, Sticky Fingers, and moored it in Vallejo. Just a 50-minute drive from Sacramento, my boat offered me a world of experience apart from residency. Whenever we had the chance, my friends and I would head out to the Carquinez Straits. This body of water, spanned by the Carquinez Bridge, is subject to strong wind and currents that can create steep seas. Sailing here is often hazardous, and in retrospect, we had no business being out there. But we didn’t know anything different, were having great times, and really learned how to sail. On some days, instead of bashing our way around the straits, we cruised up the lovely and gentle Napa River. There I learned another part of the boating experience: access to peace and natural beauty.  

After residency, I purchased a Luders Cheoy Lee 36-foot sloop, Thunder Road, and spent five years living aboard her in Sausalito. I learned how to work on the diesel, manage the 12-volt electrical system, and care for her teak decks and spruce spars. I sailed often around San Francisco Bay and cruised the California coast.  

At that time, I was able to take extended periods off work, so I traveled aboard sailing ships in other parts of the world. I sailed on a 100-foot schooner from Sausalito to Hilo and on a 400-foot square-rigged barque that launched from Cabo San Lucas. We explored the west coast of Central America, then passed through the Panama Canal into the Caribbean. Our guest lecturer was James Michener, who had just published his novel Caribbean. In the evenings, he discussed the sea’s history and civilization with passengers on the lido deck. Those were my pirate years, and seawater seemed to be coursing through my veins.  

In the late 1980s, about when I began working at Marin General, I realized it was time to come back on shore. I met and married Paige, bought a house on the water in Bel Marin Keys, fathered our only child, Molly, and sold Thunder Road. Paige and I bought a series of rowing and sailing craft to use in our lagoons. Much can be learned from operating small boats because they are so sensitive to shifts in wind, alterations of sea conditions, distribution of weight and adjustment of sail.

The saying goes that a sailor talks about nothing but home when he is at sea and about nothing but the sea when he is at home. I began to miss having a “real” boat and venturing on the water, so I crossed over to the dark side and bought Bertha, a 34-foot diesel trawler. You sailors are rolling your eyes. Why would I do such a thing? The simple answer is that there is a different tool for every job. I knew that spending time on the water with my wife, daughter and friends would require a relatively calm, controlled environment. Buying a motor trawler was a wise decision, and we spent far more hours boating than if I had insisted on using a sailboat for the rough conditions in San Francisco Bay.  

We had so much fun on Bertha. We spent 17 summers in the delta, anchored in a flooded track of what was once a farming parcel called Mildred Island. The average seasonal air temperature was 93 degrees and the (fresh) water temperature was 84 degrees. During the other seasons of the year, we found temporary berthing in either Sausalito or at South Beach Marina, just next to AT&T Park. For years we went out for the Blue Angels and the stellar KaBoom fireworks shows. We anchored in McCovey Cove for World Series games and for one rocking Rolling Stones show. 

When Molly went off to college four years ago, Paige and I began considering what to do with the next phase of our lives. We agreed to buy a bigger boat for more far-range cruising. After two years of research, we purchased our second Thunder Road, a Nordic Tug, in Anacortes, Washington. This has been the best stupid idea we ever had.  

We spent our first season (2012) aboard Thunder Road becoming knowledgeable about her complex systems while cruising the San Juan Islands (Washington) and Gulf Islands (British Columbia). In the summer of 2013, we traveled to the spectacular Princess Louisa Inlet and then spent one month in the phenomenal scenery and warm waters (yes, the water is 75 degrees) of Desolation Sound, British Columbia. Last summer, we returned to the sound, then headed further north to the Broughton Archipelago, which extends to the northern tip of Vancouver Island. This mountainous island protects the waters in these remarkable cruising grounds from the open sea and from marine weather. Summer here is a delight, with warm days, mild winds and long hours of sunlight.  

What is it about owning, maintaining and cruising a boat that I find so satisfying? One answer is the ability to spend long periods of time with family and friends, surrounded by the natural beauty of the environment and undistracted by the intrusion of “breaking news” media. We have also met wonderful people from all over North America who cruise their boats.  

Exploring by boat feels a bit like a working vacation. There is always something to plan, something to fix, some system upon which to improve, a meal to be prepared. Perhaps most powerful is that all of our creative energy, planning and work is directed entirely towards our own safety, well-being and enjoyment. Health care providers give so much of our energy away to others. I find this direct correlation between our efforts and what we experience to be rejuvenating.  

Back on Thunder Road in Bond Sound, we waited for the tide to rise, then boarded the dinghy and returned to the mouth of the Ahta River. During the rainy months, the river flows mightily, and we would not have been able to beat its current with our eight-horsepower outboard motor. But this was the dry season, and we ran into just the opposite problem: not enough water. We slowly motored as far up as the depth would allow, then tilted the outboard’s shaft out of the water and began rowing and poling our way up the river.

There was an abundance of wildlife. Along the bottom, flat fish that looked like flounder swam alongside running crabs. Salmon were jumping, but none were biting the lured lines that we offered them. Eagles soared overhead, and osprey scavenged fish remnants on the shores. We found dismembered salmon floating in the water and aground on sand banks, a sure sign that bears were present. We assumed that we would see a grizzly around each new bend in the river.  

But we never encountered a grizzly, and frankly, that was good. Imagine being in an eight-foot dinghy, poling along and encountering an 800-pound, angry, fierce, fast carnivore! We were about a mile up the Ahta, all alone, when we realized that we wouldn’t stand a chance. So we turned around, and as quickly as possible poled back to deeper water, restarted the outboard, and returned to Thunder Road.

The next morning, we took a short dinghy ride back up the river, but not far up enough as to be in harm’s way. We enjoyed the company of the fish, crabs and birds, but again saw no grizzlies. So we motored back to Thunder Road and headed south to warmer, safer environs, through Desolation Sound and eventually to Seattle.  

There are 800 miles of cruising grounds between Seattle and southeast Alaska. We are told that the scenery and experience get more dramatic as you head farther north. We have barely touched on the first 300 miles of this experience, so we have a ways to go, and the grizzly is still on the list.

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Dr. Dietz, an emergency physician, is chief of emergency medicine at Marin General Hospital.
Email: jdietz17@gmail.com