Finally in May of 1972, seven years after getting my first job on the Sidney, I took my hard earned king crab money and bought this really nice fiberglass combination boat (rigged both to troll and gillnet for salmon). Radar, oil stove, diesel engine, hydraulic net reel and anchor winch… I was beyond thrilled. I had just married an old friend, we met other young couples all working on their boats in Seattle’s Fisherman’s Terminal. At last I one of those guys I had been so jealous of: in their own really nice boat, getting ready to go up to Alaska to fish salmon!

The trip up to Alaska was all that I dreamed it would be. We were traveling in company with another couple on their boat. The trip, just up to the Alaska border was smooth, and took 7 days. For the first two days we’d traveled through Washington State’s Puget Sound, and the Gulf Islands and Georgia Strait of lower British Columbia.. There was a lot of marine traffic: tugs, ferries, yachts, fishboats. At night there were lights on the shores all around us. But then at 7:40 p.m. on May 30, we passed the ominous looking whirlpool called Devil’s Hole, just north of Yuculta Rapids, and an hour later tied at the dock of an abandoned lodge at Shoal Bay, British Columbia, shut down the engine, and walked up the dock in joy, just savoring the silence and the vastness of The North.
For Yuculta Rapids is the transition point, between the busy south coast of British Columbia, and the lonlier and wetter north coast, where some inlets or bays might see a year pass without a human visitor. No matter which of the three inside passage routes ones takes, via Seymour Narrows, Yuculta Rapids, or Okisollo Rapids, vessels must wait until slack water, the brief period at the top or bottom of the tide, when the current eases and it is safe to proceed. Is is almost as if nature put a gate across the way north, as if to say to travelers: “Wait, be careful, the land and waterways to the north of here are not friendly; be on your guard.”
For the next four days we wound our way north among the thickly forested wilderness that is North Coastal B.C. At night we dropped our anchors in some lonely bay or abandoned cannery, rafted up with our friends and ate our modest dinners, stepping out on deck afterwards in awe at the wild country that surrounded us.
Then came the border: the wider waters of Dixon Entrance, where an unexpected tide rip made for a sobering experience.

“So we came to Alaska, on a wild and lost afternoon, caught in a tide rip off a nameless point, in failing light, far from any help. The heavy westerly swell, the dirty southwest chop and the push of the tide on top made it all I could do just to keep way on the boat, throttling over the big ones and then diving deep into the troughs. The seas came from all directions and even at dead slow, waves slapped against the windows, causing the thick glass to sag inward. Twice a green one poured over the stern, filling the trolling cockpit, and the boat wallowed deep in the water until it drained. Kestrel was just 50 yards away and I could see half her keel when she came out of a big one. The shore wasn’t far, and I looked long and hard at it. If the engine ever quit, we’d be broadside in a minute and probably capsize. Even a rocky beach is better to walk home on than this crooked piece of water. Bruce came on the radio: “I broke a spoke off my wheel on that last one”; I could hear the tension in his voice.”

From Alaska Blues: A Fisherman’s Journal, Joe’s award-winning book and still available!

Just at dark the tide finally turned, the seas lay down and we crept into Foggy Bay, Alaska, totally exhausted, to rummage for the rum bottle and have a stiff drink as we began to put the interior of our boat back together after the battle with the seas/
And a week later, found the tiny community of 60 souls that was to be our new Alaska home.