The waiting game: Passage from the Lake to the Sound

Last week, Scott and I pulled out of our Lake Union slip to begin this summer's adventure northward. Never before have I been as personally, mentally exhausted at departure time as I am this year. My final day of presentations for work was the day before. We've hired someone to take the summer schedule for us and it'll be the first time I'm not personally teaching for our most important client. I'm still not actually completely finished getting him ready to go, yet. Then there's the general final-projects-before-leaving stress--this year the biggie was replacing the gearbox in our windlass. Other small projects were ongoing for the few weeks before. I was exhausted.

Fremont Bridge opening

Leaving on a Sunday, we hoped for quick passage through the Ship Canal that connects Lake Union to Puget Sound. The car bridges have no rush-hour restrictions on opening and there wouldn't be commuter trains in addition to the regular freight trains forcing the train bridge to stay closed.

We got to the Fremont Bridge and Scott gave them a hearty long, then short toot on our air horn. The bridge replied with three short toots. We looked at each other. What the hell does three short toots mean? A reply of a long and a short would have told us that he was going to open for us, five shorts would mean he wasn't. But three shorts?

We waited.

Eventually, hovering in front of the bridge, we saw boat traffic coming toward us from Ballard and figured the bridge operator was waiting for them to get to the bridge to save opening for us separately. As a small sailboat got closer, we expected to hear the signal to open. Nothing. The little boat kept right on coming, easily clearing beneath the still-closed bridge and passing by us. Show off.

Finally as two large power boat approached, the bridge operator signaled to open, eventually dropped the bars to keep foot and car traffic from crossing the bridge, and then, after a bit longer, opened.

Ballard Bridge opening

We passed under, tootled along the Ship Canal, and got to the Ballard bridge. We signaled the operator: one long, one short. The reply: five shorts. We would wait. Before too excruciatingly long of a wait, we received a long and short and the bridge opened.

As we came up to the locks, Scott noticed an Argosy ship coming up behind us. As a commercial vessel, we knew our place in line for the locks would get bumped for them to pass first. We tied up to the small locks waiting area and waited. Though I've heard parts of Argosy's tourist spiel many times before, but this time learned that not only is the large locks 800 feet long, but that the Space Needle would fit lying down in it. Huh.

We looked ahead to the train bridge just past the locks, our last obstacle to Puget Sound. It was open. I crossed my fingers that it would stay that way.

Argosy locked through the small locks as the large locks filled beside us with small vessels. We got our large locks line ready, in case we ended up in there instead of the much more comfortable and fast small locks. Argosy dropped with the water, the locks operators brought the water back up to lake level, the locks doors opened, and we got the green light to enter the small locks. Finally, a bit of good news!

Tied up in the small locks. You can see the 22' drop to salt water and the train bridge, open, ahead.

We locked through with only one small runabout for company. By this time the train bridge was closed again. Bummer. Before departing the locks, one of the locks attendants told us we were at a negative tide and we'd have 52' of clearance under the train bridge. Even with Mother Nature supporting us to her fullest extent, our 55' mast still would not pass beneath the bridge. We would wait.

Exiting the locks, a seal greeted us, lazily looking around, checking things out. Before long, the train came, then passed. Scott signaled one long, one short, just in case the bridge operator hadn't seen us hovering below. The reply was five short toots. We would wait. There was apparently another train coming…

After what felt like plenty of time for the bridge to have open and closed multiples times, the next train finally arrived, slowing as it crossed the bridge, until it stopped, just past the bridge but with apparently not enough clearance between the end of the train and the opening portion of the bridge. We waited.

Finally the train cleared, the bridge opened, and we were free of all the troubles of living on the lake. We pulled directly into Shilshole, our home of 2 years before we moved back to Lake Union in 2011. We emptied our holding tank and pulling into a sturdy slip in their ample off-peak season guest moorage section of the marina.

Even though Scott did all of the work of getting us to the marina, I feel into a deep sleep and napped while he cleaned the decks in preparation for our upcoming haul out. I never even heard him scrubbing away on the decks 3 feet above my head. I woke up long after he'd finished.

Shilshole's forest of masts.

I thought the different noises the boat makes when we're moored in a different place would keep me up that night. The wind patterns are different, stronger, out on the sound. When the wind catches the boom of the jib differently, the rattles and pings of the hardware are different. The rub of fenders against Shilshole's concrete dock would be different than the rub against the wood of our lake dock. Also, the fenders would be higher against the hull at Shilshole as well. All of that stuff sounds different from inside the cabin.

None of it kept me awake as I thought it would. I guess I was too tired for that.

Scott was up at 6:00 the next morning, stowing, preparing, doing all those things he does. He let me lay in bed extra long, until I felt too guilty for not buzzing around like I usually am the morning of our first sail of the season. We wouldn't be going far, just Everett. And it looked like it would be a calm, downwind sail, which was good. The boat is full of extra things for the haulout: the buffer for waxing, and a sander and giant shop vac for getting the old paint off the bottom before new paint is added this year. So heading downwind, keeping the boat mostly flat, was good for all of those extras and for all the stowage I was sure I had overlooked.

As we pulled out of Shilshole at 8:00 sharp, I could feel the low swell of Puget Sound the instant we passed the breakwater. More than any aspect of the lake, that low swell felt like home to me. We put Seattle behind us.