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Last night at 2330 local I set about gybing the boat North. Not Northwest or even North Northwest. North. Capital N due North. The price to pay for this much-wanted change in direction was pea soup fog. It has been with us ever since.

Unlike the fog that usually forms over land, this here soup is good ol’ fashioned, West Coast advection fog. In non-technical terms, it’s here to stay until the wind blows from a direction other than south. In practical terms, it turns everything it touches to a dripping, sodden mass in no time flat. By the time I had the boat gybed and settled at 000T, I was soaked.

It’s one of those days when you look out the window and decide its a good day to stay indoors. Or bake bread. Maybe both. The cabin could certainly use some drying out as temperatures this morning hovered near 63F and relative humidity near 80.

Suddenly it is cold again. I am back to wearing wool and fleece. Sleeping requires a blanket and my all over tan acquired while sailing to windward in the tropics is rapidly becoming  an all over pale. How quickly the tide has turned despite our prosaic progress. ( Sorry Mr. Lal, couldn’t resist that last bit.)

In another 24 hours or so, we should be able to make good a course with at least some East in it. My sojourn North could well end by then and have us pointed squarely at Brook’s Peninsula on Vancouver Island. I cannot believe it. The next landfall will be one I’ve made at least a half dozen times before. I’ve sailed the West Coast of Vancouver Island, landing where Cook and Vancouver landed, surveying where Bligh surveyed. It is familiar but now foreign.

Unlike all the other times, in the wake is the world.

Follow my tracks in real-time: