I rolled out of my bunk, looked at the low, dark clouds outside, and then checked the weather forecast again.

I had gone to sleep the previous night thinking of the strong wind warning the Canadian weather office had issued for the greater San Juans and Gulf Islands area.  Now they were calling for gale-force winds on Haro Strait, not far from our moorage in Bedwell Harbour on North Pender Island.

I made a big pot of coffee and marveled at how dramatically the scene around us had changed in just a few hours. The day before, the sun was bright and warm. We pulled into Bedwell Harbour in the early afternoon, a moderate breeze ruffling the otherwise protected waters of this popular entry point for the Gulf Islands.

The mooring buoys at the provincial marine park were full and most of the choice anchoring spots had already been taken. So we decided to tie our Island Packet 38, Three Sheets, to the concrete float that is part of the Poet’s Cove resort. There is no water or electricity on these somewhat ramshackle floats, but at $40 for the night, it was a lot cheaper than mooring at the Poet’s Cove marina and we had access to all of the resort’s other amenities, including showers, laundry, swimming pool and hot tub, and of course, the pub.

We had spent the evening enjoying the sunset, while feasting on barbequed steak and halibut in our cockpit. Then we jumped into our dinghy and headed into the pub for a few games of cribbage and some local draft beers.

But in the morning, the harbor was transformed. The dark clouds scudded low overhead, wisps of mist breaking off and floating ghost-like through the forested hillside that rose steeply above our boat. I looked at the entrance of the harbor and saw the whitecaps and steeps seas beginning to boil just outside. Power and sailboats of all sizes and descriptions tugged at their mooring balls or anchor rodes as gusts of wind blew through the harbor.

I had been carefully monitoring the weather forecast. It is late August and we should be enjoying the best weather of the year. But not this summer. In the parlance of the forecasters, an “unseasonably strong weather system” was heading out way. And it promised to be a doozy.

A rain squall tore through, and I listened to the staccato roll of heavy drops on our hatches. I poured my second mug of coffee and realized that it was already late morning but that the dull light filtering through the clouds made it seem like it the sun was still lurking below the horizon. 

The worst of the storm was supposed to hit around noon. I watched as one sailboat raised its anchor and headed out of the harbor.  The skipper must be on his way somewhere important to give up the relative comfort of this harbor for the cold, wet pounding he was going to be taking out there, I thought.

As predicted, the southeast winds were howling by the early afternoon. I again popped my head out the hatch and looked around.  There were few signs of life in the harbor. Over at Poet’s Cove, no one was out on the docks except one young, wet and very put-upon summer employee.  The other boats seemed buttoned up and  I could see the cabin lights glowing from behind the ports of several vessels.

Down below in our boat, I too had turned on the light. It was only the early afternoon, but it was too dark to read. And reading was just about the only thing worth doing on this kind of day. I poured another mug of coffee and sank into my novel. 

Deborah quietly tapped away at the computer, writing a post for the website. Occasionally, I lifted my head from the book as a particularly strong gust of wind howled past.  We thought about getting into the dinghy and going ashore. But the thought quickly passed as another rain squall hit.

I awoke from a light nap wondering what time it was. The light outside suggested it was near to sunset. The clock said 6 p.m. I heard some commotion outside and was a bit surprised to see two sailboats circling the harbor; eventually one of the skippers passed within hailing distance and asked whether he could tie to the floats as well.

The boats were arriving from Friday Harbor, just 15 miles away. But the crew looked wet, tired and happy to finally be in port.

Deborah and I passed another hour or so making, then eating dinner. The winds had begun to moderate. Here and there a lighter patch of clouds showed through the low, dark ones that raced overhead, hinting that the worst had passed. But within minutes, the feeble daylight finally gave up, letting the darkness flood into the harbor unabated. We soon climbed into our bunk and feel asleep.

The next morning, I poked my head tentatively out of the hatch. The air was filled with a fresh-washed sent of Douglas firs and wet rocks. I could see people out on their decks, shaking the rainwater out of tarps and dumping it from their dinghies. A couple with hiking shoes and walking sticks were just climbing up the nearby park ramp.

I removed the hatch boards for the first time in more than 24 hours and stood in the damp cockpit. Around me, steam rose from the deck like so many charmed snakes.  

Yesterday’s twilight had passed. Today, there would be sun.

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